


Fireflies in the Dark

by BloodylocksBathory



Series: Of Beasts and Fire [2]
Category: Jonah Hex (2010), The Lone Ranger (2013)
Genre: Anal, Angst, Biting, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Breakfast in Bed, Cannibalism, First Time Blow Jobs, Flashbacks, Hand & Finger Kink, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Illness, Nightmares, Pampering, Past Abuse, Prostitution, Touching, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodylocksBathory/pseuds/BloodylocksBathory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Butch and Burke meet again the following winter, but get stuck in a snowstorm. Even worse, Butch falls ill, and as they try to survive the weather and disease, unwelcome ghosts from the past emerge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad Business

January was cold and bitter as an old maid at a wedding. The wind cut through the heaviest of winter dress as the Cavendish gang sat waiting in a gorge, where the current still reached, but did not blow quite so harshly. Only Jésus stood, perched on a rock above them with a spy glass, keeping an eye out for their expected company. After half of an hour of waiting, they perked up at his movement of hurrying to another rock for a better view.

Butch straightened and rushed to where Jésus stood. Most of the others in the gang prepared their guns, just in case. Frank, who had been preoccupying himself by stacking stones on top of each other, was jogged from his concentration just as he was adding the fifteenth tier, and his little tower fell over.

"Nuts," he grumbled.

"That him?" Butch inquired. Jésus sneere at the speck on the horizon and passed him the spyglass.

"Yep."

"Is he alone?" Barret asked as he inspected the packed supplies on the horses.

"He's alone," Butch confirmed. "We'll go in casually."

The gang all lifted their guns in glad obedience.

While one of the members remained behind as a long-range shooter, the rest rode on to meet with their rendezvous, well within a long rifle's range. Their visitor rode a wagon drawn by two brown mules, though they looked like they smelled less horrid than their driver. Each member of the band of outlaws hoped that the grubby man had not reneged on the deal, and that the contents of his wagon were indeed the other half of the day's trade.

The wind, though harshly cold, did nothing to numb the gang's noses. And their visitor was upwind of them. Several of the men wished they had volunteered to stay behind as long-range shooter.

"You got what we asked for?" Butch asked.

"Munitions in hand," the driver said, spitting some chewing tobacco. "Ya got what I asked fer?"

"See for yourself." Some of the gang led their horses forward. Skins and furs were piled high.

The driver whistled, impressed. "Damn, you boys bag critters with the best a'them."

Butch scoffed. "Not all. Plenty of dead Injuns freezin' their rotten balls off on their funeral towers somewhere..."

The gang laughed.

Lifting the canvas on the wagon, the driver welcomed his temporary business partners to load and unload possessions. Butch smiled at the outcome.

"I look forward to a repeat of this when spring rolls 'round."

The driver's pleased expression fell like Frank's stone tower, and he cleared his throat nervously. Butch was not blind to the response. He turned and marched toward him, shoulders gathered like an animal ready to claw his prey open.

"Problem with that spring appointment, _friend_?" He snarled.

The driver gulped, likely ingesting a mouthful of tobacco. "See... the supply I said I had... this is all I could manage ta get."

Glancing at Ray, who lingered by the wagon, Butch nodded to him, and Ray promptly drove the butt of his rifle into the driver's temple. The slovenly man fell to the cold ground with a thud. Dazed, he scuffled about in a vain attempt to defend himself.

"It ain't my fault!" he insisted, his pleas falling on deaf ears. "The man I got them munitions from is ditchin' town by then. I won't know where he is!"

"You're missin' the part where that's my problem," Butch said heatedly as he stomped off by ten paces, removing his revolver and ready to shoot.

"I'd help if I could, I swear!" The driver said. "If it weren't fer that cheatin' bastard Burke..."

Butch did not hear the rest, not when he was so certain he heard a name not uttered in nearly a year. The gang fell silent, looking on with anticipation as their leader strode over to the driver, looking down at him with calm disgust.

"Say that name again."

The driver was shaking, noting that Cavendish had not holstered his gun.

"...Burke?" he managed to respond without stammering.

"An Irishman?"

"Yes."

"Where?"


	2. Mr. O'Gill and the Resignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burke treats a very welcome visitor to his personal brand of hospitality and caps it off with his usual flare.

"You! Prosius, whatever the fucking hell yer name is!"

Lifting his head from the focus of his work, the man known by his boss and fellow workers as Proinsias O'Gill left his station to address the foreman calling for him. Sweat coated his face, making the tattoos on his jaw and neck glisten.

"Yer behind on production," the foreman said, pointing an accusatory finger coated in grime at him.

Burke could hardly be bothered by any shame this supercilious bastard attempted toward him. As long as those in charge still did not realize how much he had been pinching from this steel mill, he could take whatever they threw at him. He attempted his best innocent idiot behavior.

"The machine was jammed, sir," he replied. "I had to clean some nooks and crannies."

"Well, clean faster." Grubby hands sifted through pages of information detailing the day's inventory. "Wouldn't be surprised if your own incompetence jammed it in the first place..."

The foreman looked up at him as though in disbelief. "What the hell are you still standin' there for! Git back to work!"

"Right-o!" Burke replied, returning to his station in a carefree fashion. After all, Proinsias O'Gill had no care in the world... though Burke himself could not wait to one day blow these cow-fucking shoibags to bits.

"Oi, O'Gill," another worker called to him over the noise of the machinery. "Sum fella downstairs askin' for ye. Looks like trouble."

Burke grinned and descended the staircase to the ground floor.

"I love trouble," he murmured.

Calmly traversing the steps, he was halfway down, in full view of those on the ground story, when he stopped and loudly addressed the crowds.

"I heard I have a visitor. Who amongst ye bog-rats is callin' me... out..." he trailed off when he saw a figure in black standing still amongst hustling and bustling grays and browns. The man's face was obscured by a wide brimmed hat, but Burke could still see long dark strands of hair dangling beneath, and he knew the tilt of those hips anywhere.

Butch.

Raising a hand to lift the brim of his hat revealed the scraggly traces of stubble, then the harelip that his former partner loved, and finally the heavy-lidded ghostly blue eyes as he looked up at Burke. Though his friend's expression was unmoving and blank, Burke could not resist the urge to greet him with the slightest smile.

Butch remained silent as the younger man reached the landing and drew nearer to him. Still no smile appeared, but Burke could remember the way his friend looked when angry. So far, this seemed to be a friendly visit.

"Worker housing is just next door," Burke said. "Why don't we find somewhere private?"

The older outlaw said nothing, only nodding. He stared at details he still remembered from nearly a year ago, as well as some he had forgotten. Little bits and pieces most others would not notice, but still features he had missed since their last (and first) meeting. He willingly followed Burke out the door and a few paces down the road where the neighboring lodge stood attached to the factory, trailing close behind like a very hungry shadow.

The state of the building was shabby, obviously built in haste to house the factory workers. Any creaking from the floors and steps, however, was stifled by the din of the machinery next door. Burke led Butch up a unsteady set of stairs to a second floor, a bounce in his step. Butch kept an eye on his fellow outlaw, mostly due to that bounce. What it did to Burke's backside already increased a stirring between Cavendish's legs which had been nagging since the halfway mark of his gang's journey to the mill.

"Come into my office," Burke said as he unlocked the door of his "home" and led Butch inside. The residence was just as dilapidated as the rest of the building, though the Irishman's smell improved it by a tiny bit. Sunlight from the overcast afternoon entered through a solitary window. To Butch's amusement, a not-at-all inconspicuous bundle sat in a large haversack in the corner.

Burke chuckled a little bashfully, waving at the hole-in-the-wall he currently called home as he closed the door behind him and locked it.

"Had I known ye were coming, I'd'ave asked the maid to clea"--

He spoke no further, as Butch's mouth latched over his own. As before, Burke thought for a split second he was about to be feasted on. That feeling of danger had him instantly overcome. He moaned into the other's mouth, his hands blindly unfastening Butch's belt and trousers and reaching inside. Butch instinctively bucked his hips when he felt one of the hands cradle him. His fingernails dug into the other's back, and for a moment Burke thought his shirt had been torn through. Removing his hands from the trousers, he unbuttoned a vest, then shirtsleeves. The entirety of their clothing was off in less than a minute.

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot." Cavendish said, breaking their embrace. He bent down, reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed a coin, flipping it in the air. "Call it."

Burke beamed, giving Butch a genuinely affectionate kiss on the end of his nose. "Ye kept it. Heads."

The coin landed tails up. Burke nearly jokingly lamented the fact that his lamp was on the other side of the cramped room, but heard the sound of Butch spitting into his palm. Presently, he had missed their intimacy too much to care how dry their fucking would be.

Guided to the floor, Burke was turned so that he faced the foot of his ragged bed, and instinctively he gripped the iron bars of the frame. He listened to the sound of Butch stroking himself hard until the intrusion of a saliva-coated finger threw all previous thoughts to the wind. Another finger entered him, moving like a pair of scissors, and Burke's moan nearly became a whine when the digits were pulled out. He did not have enough time to properly complain, however, because when he felt the fingers replaced by a cock, he found himself unable to breathe. Five seconds passed before he managed a pitiful little whimper.

He heard a deep chuckle behind him. The voice at his ear had that mixture of snake venom and cactus nectar that it had when they fucked so many months ago.

"Did you miss me?"

Burke gave a breathy laugh and nodded. Butch reached around, gripped his lover's hardening organ, and proceeded to thrust.

A sharp groan escaped Burke. His fingers gripped the bed post as though he were struggling to hold on against a raging current. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he needed this. As he was plunged into, the grip on his throbbing cock firm and ruthless, long past prayers from his childhood knocked about in his thoughts. His want for release steadily became more desperate, but that grip on him prevented it.

Fingers insinuated their way past Burke's lips, and he unquestioningly opened his mouth, welcoming the secondary penetration. He sucked and licked as he was fucked, and he considered biting, but Butch's release on his phallus distracted him, allowing his climax. Sagging against the bars, he hardly cared about the way his head bounced off the post over and over again. Finally Butch surged inside of him, groaning, and collapsed against him. As Burke composed the mess his brain had momentarily become, he was suddenly glad the machinery muffled the sounds of their pleasure.

Catching his breath, the Irishman turned so that he could sit against the bed frame, and Cavendish followed suit, neither minding the hard uneven surface of the bars. They slumped against each other, limbs sluggishly intertwined. While Burke languidly drifted fingertips over scarred skin, Butch inhaled the scent of an illustrated neck, licking beads of sweat from the moko that decorated his lover's pale flesh.

"Didn't know I'd see ye 'round Christmastime," Burke remarked. "I woulda got ye something."

Butch lifted an eyebrow. "That was three weeks ago, wasn' it? Also, I ain't got much use for gifts." He was met with a friendly nuzzle.

"Ye think I'd get ye somethin' useless? Liquor ain't useless."

"Well, shucks." Butch grinned.

Their post-coital bliss was cut short by a loud banging on the door.

"O'Gill!" A voice shouted from the other side. "You left your station, you spud-eatin' asshole! You git out here right now or you'll be worse than fired!"

Burke sighed, though Butch was candid in his puzzlement.

"O'Gill?"

"It's an alias, luv," Burke replied, getting up to dress himself. Butch did the same, neither paying much attention to the banging on the door.

"I understand that part," he said, opening the window and looking out. "But that's a stupid name."

Burke smiled, flipping his bowler hat as he placed it on his head.

"Unrefined brute."

Butch hesitated as he knelt on the window frame, giving his lover a wolfish grin before he escaped down the wall. Upon leaving, he happened to notice a dark chord, which led from under the bed, out the window, and into another.

"O'Gill, I swear to God, you git yer green navvy ass out here before I ram this door down!"

Burke calmly strode over to the door, unlocked and opened it. As the foreman opened his mouth to unleash another tirade, he was met with a fist that knocked out both teeth and consciousness. He crashed to the floor, causing the tumbledown structure of the hall to shake. Burke stood over him, rubbing the hand used for the blow.

"I quit."

Whistling cheerfully, the Irishman gathered his belongings, knelt at his bed, and lit a match. His whistling continued as he ignited a fuse and stood back up, trotting out the apartment, jumping over the unconscious foreman, and descending the stairs. He did not break his speed as he left the building and found Butch casually walking down the road.

"I'd pick up the pace," he advised his friend. "But look casual-like."

Shaking his head, Butch did as suggested.

"What the hell brings ya to work in a damn factory anyway?" he asked as they went on their merry, brisk, and supposedly casual way.

"Oh," Burke shrugged, indifferent to his short-lived profession. "Just killin' time. Not my idea of fun though..."

Butch could have sworn the earth beneath him moved by an inch when a thunderous explosion came from the employee housing. He was not surprised, considering Burke, but the sudden and ear-shattering noise had startled him nonetheless. Both he and his friend turned to regard the blast which had blown open the building, and for a few seconds they observed the commotion of onlookers and wounded alike. Then they turned back around and continued walking away.

"Place was a piece of shite anyway," Burke continued. "Really made more money in sellin' independently. Sendin' out weaponry to traders... hopin' maybe one day sommat got to ye."

Another explosion, detonated by the wire which had run from Burke's former room, went off from within the factory itself. Butch stopped walking for a moment, and Burke did so as well, looking at the tiny change of expression which must have meant the older man was impressed.

"Shit, boy, that's a damn good Christmas gift."

Burke laughed, admittedly somewhat bashfully, and they continued to walk onward. Though they were outside amidst possible prying eyes, the public were mostly in too much of a panic for Burke to not resist: his hand drifted that of his friend. Normally even that attempt would likely get him a slap at the very least, but they had not seen each other for almost a year, and even then only had a week to bond. A week of gaining trust, betrayal, and nearly getting killed on several occasions...

 _Oh dear. There was a thought._ Perhaps Butch was here to kill him. Then again, based on their lovemaking, hopefully Burke was far too satisfying a sexual partner to kill. Butch had said nothing at the gesture of affection, and his weathered face, all sharp angles, was not nearly so sour as it could have been. Even so, Burke remembered a thing or two about how his friend felt concerning physical contact.

Hopefully he could change that.

*

Further down the road was a town where Cavendish's gang awaited the return of their leader. The moment the men saw Burke, they welcomed him with open - albeit stiff - arms. Jésus clapped him on the back a little too hard and Ray greeted him with a remark that sounded not quite in jest.

"Been a while since we seen this ugly face!"

 _You're one to talk_ , Burke thought testily.

Other men in the gang hardly paid him any attention, and Burke wondered just how much the group knew about that week from months before, just what Butch had told them about who had been working for whom. If the men were eager for any vengeance of their own, Burke wondered how far their boss would allow them to indulge.

"We can't dawdle," Butch announced, jostling his friend by the shoulder. "Thanks to this genius here, we'll have a load'a angry workers lookin' for anyone suspicious... what few lived that pretty little performance."

Burke amusedly gave a small bow as mock gratitude. Frank applauded and received dirty looks from the rest of the gang.

"Guns and ammunition's been got," Cavendish told Burke. "On our way over, we already hid away a third'a it. Now't we got you, we'll split in half and hide the rest. But first we get the hell outta this town. Better do it soon, don't like the looks'a them clouds."

He indicated a cloudy sky which slowly grew darker. Rain or snow, the group was not yet certain, but in such frigid temperatures, neither was preferable.

Burke was led to a wagon where two of the men were already seated to drive. Peering underneath the canvas, he saw what looked more like provisions for a nationwide journey. What space of the wagon free of munitions was loaded with animal hide and packaged food stores.

"Ye boys don't act the maggot in wintertime," he stated, wondering when the gang and started the habit of using a wagon.

"We got loads of skins and furs," one of the drivers confirmed.

"Business deal went South," Butch added, mounting his horse before glancing at Burke. "Get in."

Burke was happy to comply, eager to curl up under some of the furs and curious about what food had been packed. Just before the gang started the wagon and horses, the tattooed man picked up a package of what he presumed had to be meat and inhaled, confirming his suspicions.

"This smells recent," he said. The gang snickered.

"Hope you like mule," he heard amongst them.


	3. The Biting Winds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barret has a heart-to-heart with Burke, and plans change as the weather gets worse.

The gang was nearly out of town when the wagon rolled over a large stone, onto which Burke was certain it was intentionally steered. He winced at the way he was jostled in the carriage, the impact reminding him of the "encounter" that occurred in his residence not a half hour ago... the very dry encounter. Hopefully the next coin toss would be in his favor, whenever that would be. He hoped it would be soon. Holding back a laugh, he shook his head at the thought of how hard he had fallen for the savage older outlaw, and how he already wanted to get Butch alone again.

Outside of the town, the group stopped to divide supplies. Burke sat amidst the provisions, staring into the distance at what appeared to be a carriage heading towards them and thus the town.

"Hey, Burke," Barret said, grabbing his attention. "Help split the rations? Be helpful?"

Burke acquiesced, though he kept Butch in his sights, something not exactly lost on the gang's second in command. They separated the meat into two shares whilst the Jésus and Ray separated the munitions and Frank and Skinny separated animal hides. The rest checked their shares of water and anything else required, while Butch inspected his saddle, constantly looking up at the foreboding skies.

"Oh, not that one," Barret called out as the Irishman moved to put a smaller package (peculiarly tied with a stained bit of twine) in with the pile belonging to the rest of the gang. "That one belongs to Butch."

Burke hesitated before putting it in the proper pile. It smelled no different from the other packages of meat, but he had a sneaky feeling he knew what was unique about this pack.

"Come from the same place as the mules?" he muttered with amusement.

"Surprised he wants it," Barret said cryptically. "Its owner stunk worse than a dead polecat."

"Ahh, that fella! He was a sack of shite, weren't he?" Burke laughed. Looking up, he could see that the carriage was closer now, and that Butch had caught sight of it as well. He was watching the coach like a tomcat sizing up a rival. For a moment, Burke imagined Butch hissing and he laughed again. Things got quiet for several minutes while they continued to sort the meat, and he thought back on his concerns from back in the town.

"I dunno what Butch told ye boys about what happened at the Jeffries' estate..." he began, his tone serious.

"Not much," Barret replied. Burke was not sure if the other was being sarcastic or not. "But yer still alive, so whatever happened weren't so bad."

The tattooed man was a little surprised at the answer, or rather the nonchalance of it.

"Don't the boys ever ask about me? What I did before joinin' up with ye..."

"Nope. Way we see it, you're always answerin' all the questions came to mind before we even say anythin' anyway."

"True." Loading the sorted food into rucksacks, he glanced up again and saw that on top of the carriage was a pair of men tossing away bundles from their means of transportation, clearly with no intent of ever retrieving them. He speculated if the disposal was of contaminated clothing and blankets. If so, the town the gang had just vacated was in for a hell of a visit.

"Somethin' I noticed," Burke remarked, lowering his voice. "Butch doesn't talk much anyway, but he talks about himself even less. Or at least certain parts of himself. Such as his past...?"

Barret gazed at him as though surprised the other man had the nerve.

"It's a real miracle you didn't lose a finger for it." Warily making sure they had no eavesdroppers, he continued, looking Burke in the eye. "We don't follow most rules out here, but one we follow real close: Take the measure of a man for what he is today. We all learned long ago that the distant past stays in the past, especially with Butch."

Burke nodded, catching the man's point. "I'll keep that in mind."

As Butch walked over to ascertain the division of the food, the carriage approached them. Assuming the men on top were not complete idiots, Burke paid them no attention. Butch, however, did. He hurried forward and knocked a pack of clothes away just as one of the coachmen threw it, with Burke unwittingly in its path. Wide-eyed, the Irishman watched as Cavendish grabbed up the bundle and threw it right into the thrower's face.

"Watch where ya throw yer garbage 'fore I cut you a new shithole!" Cavendish roared at the stunned men. As the the horse and carriage moved onward, both Barret and Burke caught a glance through the window of the coach door. The passengers within looked like death itself hand a grip on their throats, validating Burke's notions of an illness. The carriage itself did not even slow, and in fact increased its speed as the infirmed continued its journey towards the town.

Burke was about to thank his friend, but Butch cut him short.

"Ya got more ink than blood in yer brain?" he snarled, brushing debris off of his sleeves. "Pay damn attention next time!"

The tattooed outlaw only stared, keeping his mouth shut. Barret, seated front row for the little debacle which had occurred, gave Burke what appeared to be a knowing look. He had no time to ask why, because already Cavendish was barking orders for the gang to saddle up and continue their respective journeys.

"Wind's pickin' up," he fumed, pressing his hat closer to his head. "Barret, you take Skinny, Jésus, Linton and Alvirez and go East. Take the wagon with ya and dump it somewhere. The rest, we'll head North."

As he mounted his own horse, it occurred to Burke that whilst everyone else had taken extra layers of clothing for the inclement weather ahead of them, their boss had not even bothered, too eager to leave than waste time wrapping up warm.

"At least put on one of the heavy coats, Butch," he suggested.

"I said hurry up, God blast it!" Butch snapped.

Shaking his head, Burke turned his horse to join his half of the group. He noticed that while Barret's half was already riding off, the second-in-command hesitated, looking at the tattooed man for a full ten seconds before joining the others. The wordless farewell was unsettling to say the least, and as Butch's half of the gang rode towards their destination, suspicion plagued Burke's brain. Whether it was the connection between Cavendish and Burke or the truth about what had happened months ago at the Jeffries estate, Barret clearly suspected something.

*

Overcast skies made the evening approach even sooner, but the group rode on. The winds cut like invisible blades, icy and strong. So loud and harsh was the current that Burke could not even "cheer" the men with one of his songs even if he so wished. Flurries of snow felt like needles against their faces, but none of it seemed intent on staying to the ground. It was a comfort, if only a small one, that their horses were not in danger of pushing through deepening snow, at least not yet. With the obscured sun making its way toward the horizon, their original destination was not holding much promise anymore.

Peering out from under his hat at a distinct set of rock formations, Butch recognized their surroundings and made his decision.

"The rest of the way's too rough for all of us!" he called over the wind. "Frank, Burke, come with me! The rest'a ya, head back, meet with the others where it's safer!"

"Don't ya need the extra help?" Ray asked.

"Got all the help in three," Butch replied. "We'll stop at the cabin. Safest way's the long way."

Burke could not help noticing the way Butch moved in the saddle as he spoke. He looked uncomfortable, though not just from the lack of proper winter clothing. Shoulders rotated and elbows flexed as though his very skeleton ached.

 _Trouble with the elements, old man?_ Burke considered teasing. But his friend's behavior caused him worry. Was he getting sick with whatever had inflicted the bastards in that coach? If so, being stuck out on the middle of nowhere was a predicament in which they did not want to be.

"Let's go already! This way!"

Shoulders hunched forward as though to muscle his way through the winds, Butch turned his horse and rode on, the tails of his coat flapping. A very telling hunk of long dark hair, held together by a scalp, dangled from the material like the tail of a grotesque kite. Burke kept the swinging trophy in his sight, maintaining his focus as the three men rode through the wicked invisible tide that was the wind.

Night was to fall soon. Butch was angrier than a nest full of hornets, and the ache which was beginning to course through his body with every heart beat was not improving his mood. If he was sick from jumping in to help Burke, that potato-eating piece of horse manure was going to be in big trouble. Checking behind him to ensure his two remaining traveling companions were still present, he thought about just how prompt he was in sending the others away.

 _Damn_ , he thought. _They probably left with that heart._


	4. The Dark Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes arrive at the old cabin, but Butch's health seems to be getting worse.

Despite the gloomy skies, the night brought a nearly full moon. Every time it peeked through the fast rolling clouds, the landscape was illuminated, and as Burke looked around, he realized the group was close to the end of their journey.

He glanced at Butch, who likely knew they were on the right path as well, but said nothing to the gang leader. His lover was looking worse than he had some hours ago. Butch was pitifully slumped over in the saddle, and as Burke rode closer, he could see the position was not from the cold winds alone; the way Cavendish stooped suggested he might fall off his horse at any moment.

"Butch," he said, feeling a little foolish with what little distance they had left to cover. "Perhaps we should stop and rest"--

"We keep movin'!" Butch retorted, jerking toward him as though startled out of sleep. Burke wondered if his friend had indeed nodded off during the ride.

Looking behind him, Burke saw Frank looking back, sharing what was likely the same expression of worry the Irishman had on his own face. Taking initiative, Frank rode on ahead. Not ten minutes later, a light appeared in the blackness.

"There," Butch pointed. "Cabin ain't far. Get a move on." With a snap of the reigns he rode faster, Burke following close behind. The thought of Cavendish falling at this speed doggedly nagged at the tattooed man's mind, and he stayed in pace with his friend.

Butch did not fall from his mount during the remainder of the ride, but seemed even worse by the time he arrived at the cabin. Leaving the saddle, he lost balance as his feet touched the ground, but he quickly recovered before he could make a complete idiot of himself. Burke could not ascertain the other man's condition under the guiding light of the lamp Frank had left on a hook, not with that wide-brimmed hat obscuring his features, but the posture alone was unmistakable as he staggered to the front door. Arms out, Burke kept his distance from the foul-tempered outlaw, but was prepared to catch him in case he passed out.

Frank hurried around from the back, feedbag in his trembling hands. He looked ready to jump in a fire if it meant warming up, but he was ever dutiful.

"I'll put the horses away, Butch," he said. "If ya want, I can start buryin' the guns..."

"Hurry the hell up!" Cavendish yelled, grabbing onto the frame as he sagged against the doorway. "We ain't got..." He trailed off, his voice quiet, and he rubbed at his face with his free hand as though to scrub the exhaustion from himself. Burke thought he looked either severely ill or in great pain. The truth was he felt both.

As the sound of a shovel stabbing at frozen ground echoed in the air, Butch groped for the latch on the door. An inked hand lifted it for him and he felt a strong arm guide him inside. He snarled, wishing nothing more than to be steady enough to wheel around and bite his well-meaning friend. Butch did not want anyone's hands on him, especially not in the condition he was in.

"Git offa me, I don' need yer help!" he growled.

"Of course not," Burke replied patiently, ignoring the other man's venomous behavior and continuing to lead him. In the months that the cabin was empty, none else had explored it, as everything still appeared to be unmoved. The dirty mattress remained where it lay from that fondly remembered night, when the two men were intimate with one another for the first time. Burke could remember the way the dust seemed to twinkle in the sunlight as he was awoken by a fingertip tracing his moko lines. From the state of Butch, such moments would not be repeating themselves for a while yet.

Disoriented and drained of his strength, Butch lurched toward the mattress and sat down heavily. When he finally felt Burke's hands release him, he fell onto his side, ignoring the dust spread from the impact and rolling onto his back. He felt he could just tumble into the realm of sleep the moment he closed his eyes... were it not for the pounding soreness of his head. As Burke started a fire to keep the place warm, the older outlaw turned his head away, the dim light too much for his headache.

With a deliberately clogged chimney to prevent surprise attacks via explosives, the cabin did not have an official fireplace. Instead, several planks had been broken from the wood floor to make room for an improvised hearth. Burke remembered Butch telling him it was used typically only used for making stew due to the absence of ventilation, and as tempted as he was to keep it burning for warmth, the younger man decided death by smoke inhalation was not ideal.

 _Speaking of stew... there has to be a pot_. Burke did not take long in finding it, filled with cobwebs but still in decent condition, along with an iron trivet to suspend it over the flames. Wiping both clean, he set them in place over the little fire.

Hearing the latch lift, Burke raised his head to see Frank enter, quickly closing the door behind him as though he were being chased. Covered in dirt from his struggle to dig into the frozen soil, he wiped some sweat from his efforts off of his brow, leaving behind a large smudge. Hurrying forward to gain some warmth from the fire, he dragged a rucksack along with him until he saw the state of his boss, and proceeded more quietly.

"Ray an' the others took all the mule," he whispered, opening the bag, "but we got some dried meat, if ya want some."

"It'll do." Burke took what was offered and tore the tough portion in half. Taking care not to startle his friend, he leaned over and gently nudged Butch's shoulder.

"Care for some, brother?"

"Uhh?" Butch did not seem to have paid attention, perhaps once again nodding off. He looked at the meat with disinterest in his bleary eyes.

"Ain't hungry. Just need sleep."

Need was the apt word. Perhaps the flickering light of the small fire was playing tricks on Burke's eyes, but to him the once intimidating cannibal outlaw was now a mere shadow of himself, pitiable and weak.

"Alright. Good night then," the Irishman said, and were it not for Frank's presence, he would have let a word like "luv" or "sweetheart" slip into the statement.

Turning back to face the fire, he and Frank ate their dry food in silence. Neither spoke to even make small talk, as they were too consumed by worry for Butch, but in truth they did not know what could be done. Finishing the impromptu supper, Burke leaned over a second time, expecting some angry demand from his lover to be left alone. To his surprise, Butch was already asleep. Curiosity getting the better of him, he lifted a hand to nudge the motionless form.

"No!" Frank hissed, making him jump. "If he's asleep, let'im sleep! Ya want'im bitin' yer face off??"

Frowning irritably at his companion, Burke glanced back at Butch, who despite the noise did not stir. Both Burke and Frank looked at each other uncomfortably. At this point, Cavendish waking and threatening them with painful death was preferable.

"We should turn in for the night as well," Burke whispered. Frank nibbled on his bottom lip and nodded. At times such as these, the Irishman had to wonder just how young Frank was, but even in his youth, the scrawny man's devotion to his boss was impressive. Either that or simple fear kept his resolve strong as steel.

Luckily for them, they still had a generous share of the skins and furs. Butch, who did not seem remotely cold, was supplied with several blankets nonetheless. Hoping to use whatever warmth was left in the cabin, they left the small fire to die on its own as they curled up on the floor, bedrolls beneath them and hides and clothes above. While Frank faced the front door, Burke passed time awaiting sleep by keeping Butch in his sight. The occasional twitch would pass through the restless outlaw, but otherwise Cavendish seemed dead to the world.

Burke did not know what the hell the illness was which had possessed his friend, but he hoped the signs would make themselves known before things became much worse, before Butch was beyond helping. Eyelids heavy, he finally closed them and joined the other men in sleep.

Meanwhile, Butch Cavendish, who barely ever remembered the images his brain cooked up in his sleep, dreamed. And in his dream, he entered a place he had managed to avoid for decades, a place that still frightened him.

*

_He sat in a dimly lit room, a small lamp and a hastily boarded up window his only sources of light. The window used to be clear, but he was deprived of the luxury when he tried to escape (they warned him he wouldn't come away unscathed the next time he had such cheek). At least two pages lay at his side next to the lamp. Every once in a while when he could acquire pieces of charcoal, he practiced his writing. Though he had never cared much for his schooling, having nothing but the room now seemed to make memorizing letters and words so much more important. Otherwise, what else could he do while he waited?_

_Suddenly the door swung open and a man entered, towering over him and stinking of liquor. The bourbon crawled out from the back of his throat as he leaned forward to examine Butch, breath hot against his face. Though the words were forgotten, he could hear the hunger in the man's voice. Filthy fingers held Butch in a painful grip._

_He had enough. He did not want to cooperate, not if this was how things were going to be. Grabbing the lamp, he shoved it against the man's head as hard as he could, breaking glass and snuffing the light. A roar of pain and anger echoed in the room, and the man swung his arms, first to regain balance on his intoxicated body, then to deal a blow that had Butch on the floor and struggling to stay conscious._

_When the man dealt a shaving razor against him, he was conscious then. His screams for help and mercy fell on deaf ears until nearly ten hellishly long minutes of the treatment, when Ms. Marla stormed into the room. Still on the floor, Butch looked up as the man angrily gave her more money and stormed out. Butch was determined not to cry, but in the end a few tears would force their way out despite his efforts; they would for years yet. He was lucky this evening though; the broken lamp might have left him stuck in the cellar for the night if his wound had not needed immediate attention. Even so, Ms. Marla was furious with him for the trouble he caused, on top of the fact that he had ruined their profits until he was properly healed._

_His writing pages had fallen to the floor in all of the commotion, and as he heard someone uncork a bottle of alcohol, he grabbed fistfuls of the paper and stuffed them into his mouth, biting down to endure the treatment. His situation was a hopeless one. He couldn't act out, he couldn't resist, and he couldn't fight back. He couldn't do anything, because he was just a kid._

*

Butch awoke with a start, still feeling the remnants of the past cling to his waking moments. Looking around the poorly lit space, however, he realized he was in one of his hideaways, far away from the dreaded cage of his childhood. He might have risen from his bedding if he did not feel as though he had been run over by a train.

Not two feet away in the light of the moon were Burke and Frank, coiled on the floor under layers of clothes and furs, sound asleep. The blankets which had been given to him, however, lay at his feet in a pile, kicked off in the throes of his dream. It was no wonder: his body was so hot that even without the blankets he was sweating. Removing his boots and shrugging out of his coat and vest, he lay back down, staring at the ceiling and wiping his damp brow with a shirtsleeve. His efforts did no good. Pouring with sweat and still exhausted, he fell back into fitful sleep, where the dreams and the dark room awaited his return.


	5. White Hills and Red Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snow falls, Frank tries to be helpful, and Burke worries.

Morning arrived, its light seeming somehow brighter, and when Burke and Frank looked out the window, they were met with a landscape of pure white. The winds had brought their own little surprise, which was still falling from the heavens. Mouth agape, Frank opened the door and stood on the porch in disbelief, clinging to the furs still wrapped around him. Burke joined him, removing his knife and sticking it into the snow. The blade of his weapon disappeared fully by the time it reached solid ground. Standing straight, he gazed out over the hills of solid white.

"Hmm."

Frank tilted an eyebrow at him. "'Hmm'?"

"That's all," Burke said, turning to go back inside. "Just hmm." Then he paused. "Be a lad and bring in some snow for the pot, aye?"

Leaving the door open, Burke gathered what little kindling was left indoors and started up the fire again. He stoked the flames as Frank hurried in and out with handfuls of snow, dropping it into the pot to melt.

"That'll do," he declared when the pot was half full. "Ye see to the horses, I'll see to..." he gestured toward the still sleeping form of Butch, who in his sleep had kicked off his blankets and partially undressed. Frank complied, giving his boss one final look before heading outside, closing the door behind him.

With unnecessary company absent, albeit for a short time, Burke turned his attention toward Cavendish. When he had awoken that morning, he still faced the mattress, and for a few minutes he simply stared at the half disrobed sight until he heard Frank wake behind him. Naive as the thought was, he had wished that somehow his partner's health would have improved during the night. Instead, as the snow continued to fall outside, Butch looked as though he were enduring the hottest day in the summer season.

In the corner where he had found the pot and trivet, Burke located several bowls. One of them he used as a wash basin, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and soaking it through. Taking a seat at his friend's "bedside", he twisted the cloth, deciding the offer of comfort was an easy enough first step toward recovery.

When Butch finally stirred, he awoke to the sensation of something blissfully cool and damp against his forehead. His eyes remained closed as he savored the feeling, though he felt so damned hot that he could have sworn the moisture evaporated from his skin in less than a second. He finally opened his eyes and saw Burke sitting at his side. Tattoos stretched as the younger man smiled at him.

"It snowed," Burke told him, his tone of voice similar to that of an overjoyed child. Butch tried to move and winced at the stiffness and ache of his joints. Perhaps he was getting old, he considered.

"Did it?" He rasped. "Couldn't tell."

Burke gave a small chuckle, dunking the cloth a second time, wringing it out, and replacing it over a burning neck.

"I could likely put ye out in a bank and still ye'd complain about the heat. Seems ye've run a wee temperature."

Unimpressed, Butch shut his eyes, focusing on the coolness of the cloth.

"It's nothin'. I'll get over it."

 _I wish I had your confidence_ , Burke thought. At the sound of footsteps on the porch, he patted the cloth in the dip of Butch's throat, leaving it there.

"Don't move."

Butch gave him an annoyed look, which he ignored. Rising from the floor and wrapping himself in a fur, he headed outside.

Frank looked at him anxiously, rubbing his gloved hands together.

"How is he?"

"Utter shite. Still not sure what it is yet."

The youth gave an audible little sigh of despair, reminding Burke of a lady about to swoon. They gazed over the solid white panorama as the snow continued to fall.

"With most of the mule meat gone," Frank remarked, "we'll have to ration, but the food we got'll last for two weeks, I reckon. Maybe three, considerin' Butch ain't so keen on eatin'... I checked the stable, seems t'be enough firewood for that long too."

Burke looked up at the clouds, grey and sinister and likely promising even more snow. Lovely.

"Hopefully we won't be stuck out here any longer," he mused aloud.

Frank looked at him, eyes wide with trepidation. "What if we get snowed in?"

"I hope not," was all Burke could think to say. The situation was not exactly what he had in mind as far as spending time again with Cavendish, stuck in the middle of nowhere with a sick lover and a scatterbrained young man during an oncoming snowstorm.

Then it dawned on him.

"Ye know..." he said as casually as he could manage, "if we do get snowed in, it'd be a right shame if we ran out of essentials. Where the other boys are, they're likely doing fine. All warm and plenty of food to be had..."

"Yeah," Frank said forlornly.

"Someone should ride out to a nearby town... restock just in case."

Frank continued to nod until his thought process caught up with the Irishman's words.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Right! Someone _should_ do that! _I_ can do that!"

He was off like a shot, bundling up properly and retrieving his horse from the back.

"If I see the boys, I'll let'em know y'all are safe," he stated, climbing into the saddle.

Burke crossed his arms, less from the cold, more from indifference.

"Do ye know what ye need to bring back?" he asked, feeling like a parent sending his child to run errands. Frank's brow knitted as he concentrated.

"Food," he thought aloud. "Food, firewood... broth! Broth'd be good. Medicine... and what else?"

The tattooed man smirked. "That seems to be the thick of it."

"Food, broth, medicine, firewood... got it." Frank's horse hesitated in the deepening snow, but with a buck of the young man's heels, he spurred it onward. "Don'tcha worry, Burke! I'll come back with everythin'! Food, broth, medicine, firewood, food, broth, medicine, firewood..."

Burke could have sworn he could hear the chant carried on the winds even as Frank soon rode out of sight. He exhaled, his breath visible in the cold.

"Thought he'd never leave," he muttered.

Granted, he did not necessarily hate Frank. In fact, he liked Frank... from a distance. Most folk Burke engaged with as a means to an end, usually for personal gain or his own entertainment. And as amusing as Frank could be at times, he would only be in the way at the cabin. In addition, the young man did not need to see his leader in his current state, nor did he need to see his condition get any worse. Butch did not need his own lackeys seeing him in such a vulnerable position either. Respect between a gang and their boss was important after all. For these reasons, Burke thought himself best suited to act as healer. After all, he technically was not a part of the Cavendish gang, and thus was not Butch's lackey; he was Butch's pain in the arse.

Entering the cabin, the first sight which greeted Burke was his friend attempting to stand with all the grace of reanimated corpse.

"Hup, told ye not to move," he gently reprimanded, arms out to guide him back to the mattress. Predictably, Butch wrenched his arm away from the other's grasp.

"M'fine," he grumbled, though his steps were unsteady and he seemed to be looking right through Burke's head. Before he could argue any further, his dizziness sent him back down to the mattress with a plop.

"What can I do, luv?" Burke asked, unsettled by the heat emanating from his lover's flushed skin. At first he thought Cavendish did not hear him, turning in his seat and stretching out his arm, until the Irishman realized what was being pointed at. The bucket he remembered from a year ago still sat in the shadows several paces away.

"Need..." Butch seemed to be concentrating to speak, as though already falling back asleep. He sighed, frustrated. "Need t'piss..."

Burke had the pail in his hands and in front of his friend in a matter of seconds. Undoing his belt and trousers, Butch drowsily aimed and urinated. In his close proximity to Burke, he gravitated toward him until he was leaning, shirt soaked with perspiration, against the other man's shoulder. He did not seem to notice or care when Burke kissed his forehead, less a gesture of endearment and more an inspection of temperature.

_Jesus, it's like he's on fire._

"Don't fret," he finally said, though the smile he offered held little of the enthusiasm it normally had. "We have nowhere to be. Rest for now, it'll be fine."

Butch pulled at his shirtsleeves, hands fumbling with the buttons until he was assisted. Shirt open, he gave a long, heavy sigh.

"Too hot."

"You're not joking," Burke replied. He tried to sound like his usual lighthearted self, but found doing so difficult. The sight of the exposed chest seemed unnaturally flush, redder than simple fever. Hopefully his friend was too tired to notice his worry.

 _Well, I got my wish_ , he glumly thought as the other man fell asleep. Indeed, he was finally alone with Butch.


	6. Relentless Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burke makes a diagnosis. Butch unwittingly leaves more clues.

Butch slept throughout the day, his body as warm as the weather was cold. Burke wove in and out of sleep, a peculiar thing for him. On any normal day he could find sleep even in a barrack with bullets whizzing past and mortars being blown apart. Worry was a funny thing in that way.

Not wanting to risk waking Butch, Burke went outside to empty his bladder. As he pissed off of the porch, he was granted a reprieve from his worries by the sight of his urine dyeing the snow and leaving a yellow hole, but the amusement was, as expected, fleeting. Evening was approaching, giving the already dark skies an eerie quality.

Staring at the snow, which had to be almost two feet deep by now, he wracked his brain for clues as to Butch's condition. Exhaustion, fever, aches all through his body... that hardly narrowed down the culprits. Cavendish's chest looked particularly red, but could have been so from the fever alone. The damn disease coach could have been spreading anything. Burke rubbed at his eyes and returned indoors.

Butch was awake and sitting up, yanking with aggravation at the remaining clothes still on his body. Lighting the oil lamp, Burke assisted him, noticing how he winced at the light, no matter how soft it was. As he peeled the shirt off of his lover's shoulders, the younger man saw his first real sign of what Butch was enduring. Decorating his skin was a splotchy rash, radiating outward from his middle.

Memories from childhood rushed through Burke's mind. Stories told by people from older generations, describing a fever accompanied by an aversion to light and aches of the head, limbs, and spine. The rash was the final piece of the puzzle. Helping Cavendish out of his trousers and undergarments, Burke gathered the entirety of his friend's attire and rushed outside, tossing the offending articles in the snow. Butch seemed too disoriented to notice, but he became fully alert when he felt a pair of hands examining his hair.

"Whut're you doin'??" he asked, flinching under the other's touch and ready to drive his elbow into the stomach behind him.

"Lookin' for bugs," Burke answered, peering at the strands in the lamplight. Oh, if only his friend's hair was a lighter color...

Butch rolled his eyes at the answer, turning to look at Burke. "I'm pretty sure they're in there."

"Hold still." Burke's voice was not so cheerful as it had been the day before, replaced with stern resolve. "Alla this oil, it likely didn't bite ye in yer scalp, but I'm checking all the same."

"What bit me?" Cavendish began to get an idea of what was happening.

"Louse or flea. Those were typhus patients headed for the steel town... they'll likely infect the whole lot of'em."

"Good."

The simple retort was enough to make a quiet little laugh escape Burke's lips. At least the illness had not drained Butch of his charming personality, not yet anyway.

"This is what I get for takin' the blow for ya," Cavendish grumbled. Burke was unfazed.

"Ye can thank me when ye're well again."

"I will."

This time Burke managed to hold back a laugh. Presently he would gladly welcome a return of his friend's fiery disposition. Butch Cavendish without his fire and tenacity was a disquieting thing.

"How do you know about putrid fever anyway?" Butch said after about two minutes of silence. He needed something to get his mind off of the unpleasant experience that was the pair of hands sifting through his hair. He knew shearing the mess off would have likely made the search for lice or fleas easier, but it would be a cold day in hell before he allowed his hair to be cut.

"It ain't just a sickness of the Americas. Ireland's had his fair share." The tattooed outlaw finished his search by gently inspecting behind his lover's ears. "Picked up a thing or two about what it looks like, how to treat it... sorry to tell ye, but you're in for a helluva few weeks."

"I can take it," Butch replied dismissively, shaking his head like a dog drying itself once the hands left his scalp. The action made him dizzy. "I seen all the faces of illness since I was a boy."

"How so?" Burke asked, curiosity piqued.

He received no answer. Leaving his position behind Butch, he saw the other man's hands had clenched into fists. The marred face stared ahead, expression dark and unmoving. The barrier of that dangerous thing known as Butch's past had been crossed, even if by just an inch. Burke knew better than to press the matter, and he stood up, disrobing and tossing his own clothes out the door for the sake of safety. The last thing either man needed was yet another case of typhus from the damn bugs.

Even as he swathed himself in blankets and furs, Burke felt the chill of winter creep into his shivering body nonetheless. Looking at the naked, sweating body of his patient did not help him feel any warmer. Briefly he was tempted to snuggle up against Butch's overheated frame, but suspected he would get a severe thrashing in return, even from someone this sick. Searching through his haversack instead, he found his extra set of clothes, not quite as heavy as what he previously wore, but a welcome additional layer nevertheless.

Butch, who had lain back down, curled up on his side, facing away from the lamplight. Glancing out the window, Burke concluded the day was late enough for himself to turn in as well. Blowing out the flame, he joined his lover in sleep, laying on the floor beside the mattress.

What Burke was unaware of, however, was that Butch was not asleep. Ever since arriving at the cabin, he had come to dread sleep. Unfortunately he knew he could not avoid succumbing, and after ten minutes of struggling to resist, he closed his eyes and let his sickness drag him downward.

*

The next morning, Burke was the first to wake. Yawning, he lit the fire under the pot again and started on breakfast. As far as he was aware, Butch had not eaten since before he reunited with Burke at the factory, and if he could not get the man to eat, he could at the very least make him drink. Without medicine to treat the worst of the symptoms, little else could be done other than try to prevent dehydration, and based on how much Cavendish had been sweating, the risk was likely extremely high.

"No."

"What." At first Burke thought he was being addressed. When he received no reply, he turned to see Butch was still asleep. He did not twitch, but rather shivered from head to toe, and as he continued to talk in his unconsciousness, Burke knew the shaking was not from the cold.

"Nooo..." he whined fearfully. One of his hands swatted at some invisible force that would not leave him be, bringing his arm to rest behind his head. Burke edged closer, careful not to wake him but wanting to hear more.

"It hurts..." Butch murmured, writhing. "I'll be good... please... pleeease don't..." His back arched off of the bedding as he tried to avoid the threat only he could see in his fever-addled brain. Burke was about to attempt to provide some form of comfort when a strangled cry broke from the sick man's throat. His breath heavy, the wail was a disturbing concoction of fear and lust. One of Butch's hands dove in between his legs and gripped as he curled up in a fetal position, hiding his face in a pillow and still begging for someone not to hurt him.

The display left Burke bewildered and more than a little startled. He was not sure how to even respond to his friend's behavior. In fact he had never seen Butch look so... helpless. Putting on what he hoped was a convincing attempt at his usual nonchalant face, he filled two bowls with oatmeal from the pot and moved to wake the other.

Butch was jolted from his fitful sleep by a gentle nudge into his shoulder, and already he was prepared to strike at whomever had snuck up on him. Remembering where he was, he calmed, but only slightly.

"It's alright," Burke automatically whispered, holding out a bowl for him. "I've made breakfast. Pity we have no milk."

Butch wiped at his face, hunching over as he sat up. Straightening himself was too painful. The beat of his heart seemed just as rapid as his shivering. How he wished his shaking was from the cold.

"Ain't hungry," he said groggily.

"I know," Burke replied, almost sounding apologetic. "Ye can't get better on a empty stomach though, so please. Humor me."

Though he would not concede his lover's point, he knew Burke was right. Trembling hands taking the bowl, he lifted it to his disfigured lips and ate, though sluggishly. Burke smiled.

"Good boy," he said jokingly.

Cavendish did not appreciate the choice of words. The supposed term of affection sounded too familiar, too close to something he would have heard in his sleep. Still, he kept his thoughts to himself.

"Where's Frank?" he muttered.

"Sent him out for medicine and food," Burke answered. "Also to give ye some privacy. Hopefully he doesn't get his petticoats stuck in the ice."

Butch wanted to laugh, but he was finding very little funny nowadays.

Finishing only half of the bowl, he stubbornly ate no more and resumed his place on the mattress. Limbs heavy, he lifted a hand and pointed at the improvised wash basin. Burke took the hint and removed the soaked handkerchief, wiping beads of sweat from the unfortunate complexion.

"Leave it," Butch said dully. Burke obeyed, spreading the wet cloth over the man's chest. The paradise felt by the cool material was brief, but Butch did not care. Staring at the walls, he drifted the back of his knuckles against Burke's knee, the part of his lover presently closest to him. Burke nearly took the hand to hold it, but imagined the feeling of the fever being added to by any source of warmth.

"Will ye sleep again, dear one?" he asked.

"Mmn." Butch hardly wished to speak. His head and joints were throbbing, and the wet handkerchief was rapidly matching his own temperature. In addition, the oatmeal lay in his gut like a hunk of clay, feeling heavier and drier by the second. He hated to go back to that damn dark room, but he hated staying here in his sickness as well.

 _Next time I wake up_ , he assured himself. _I'll be much better next time I wake up._

He wished he could genuinely believe that.

*

Only a half hour had passed the next time Butch awoke. Burke had been sharpening one of his knives - partly because he needed to, partly to pass the time - when Cavendish abruptly rolled over, gagging and frantically reaching for the wash basin. Burke wasted no time, and he grabbed the nearby bucket and placed it under his lover just as the oatmeal breakfast rushed upwards and outwards.

Butch was not exactly a man immune to vomiting, and his gang had seen him endure a hangover or two in their time, but today was different. Already he felt like a pathetic weakling in this relentless damn fever, but as he threw up in front of Burke, he felt like a snake at the mercy of a hawk. Reverberations of his nightmare world clawed at him, stripping away any sense of control he had, and he felt a desperate need for Burke to get away from him, to leave the cabin entirely. He just wanted to be alone, to suffer alone.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a hand reach for his hair, likely to brush it away from the path of his vomit, but he weakly slapped it away.

"No!" he managed to groan out before his stomach acted up again. No one was going to touch him. He would kill them first.

He thought he must have blacked out, because suddenly he was on his back again, his vision hazy and the light from outside overpowering. He rested an arm over his eyes, breath still heavy from nausea and unease. Something moved in front of the window, blocking most of the light, and when he opened his eyes he saw familiar dark markings warped around an equally familiar smile.

Burke observed the way Butch once again seemed to stare right through him, the way he appeared utterly apathetic to his plight. Dull eyes which once held ferocity shut, and Burke was uncertain where exactly his friend was between asleep and awake. A small whisper of a moan left Butch as he swayed in an out of consciousness.

The Irishman's smile faded, because he could no longer keep up the facade. He hated what was happening to Butch, but little could be done to set things right. Until Frank could return with medicine, Burke could only try to provide as much comfort as possible and wait. Leaning forward, he gingerly placed a hand beneath the other man's head and lifted, using his other hand to pick up the wash basin.

"Have some of this, Butch," he whispered as he felt a feeble attempt at resistance. "Take a wee bit o'that bealin' taste out of your mouth."

To his surprise (and worry), Butch complied sipping the water from the bowl. Was he awake enough to understand, or too sick to bother defying the physical contact?

"There's a lad," Burke encouraged him.

When he would take no more to drink, Butch was lowered back onto the pillow, where he listlessly watched the younger outlaw locate and dip the handkerchief. Wringing the cloth over the red chest, Burke dutifully wiped his lover's brow and neck. He did not know how alert Butch was in present circumstances, so he followed instinct and began to sing.

"I sat within a valley green, I sat me with my true love. My sad heart strove the two between, the old love and the new love..."

Burke smiled at the irony of his choice of song. _The Wind That Shakes the Barley_ was not at all a happy song, but it was the only song he could think of. He continued singing as he felt the body beneath his hand still, chest steadily rising and falling with sleep.

"And round her grave I wander drear," he came to a close. "Noon, night and morning early, with breaking heart whene'er I hear the wind that shakes the barley."

Hoping the drink he had provided would stay in the other outlaw's stomach, Burke cautiously got off of the mattress and emptied the pail outside, cleaning the rest of the vomit out with snow. When he returned to Butch's side, he laid a sheet over him, bundled himself up in blankets and hides and took a seat against the wall, watching his friend sleep.

This would be a hell of a few weeks, he thought to himself. Things were going to get much worse before they got any better... if "better" even happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
> The Wind That Shakes the Barley - Robert Dwyer Joyce


	7. Boiling Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burke has a crisis of personal morals. Butch's dreams reach their pinnacle.

Hours passed and Burke found himself nodding off as afternoon became evening. Though much of his life passed without incident of guilt, he felt tiny traces of it snagging at his brain while keeping watch of Cavendish. He needed to stay awake somehow...

Tiptoeing across the cabin, he opened the packs and searched until he found a particularly indicative small bag. Sure enough, he inhaled the scent and knew he had found the coffee, already ground. Not much was left, and rationing was likely, but he would have to make do.

Heating the water in the cauldron once more, Burke went outside, not only to rejuvenate himself in the chilled air but also to ascertain the weather. Any chance the snow had to melt had been ruined, because more was falling again. Though the cabin looked to have withstood the elements for countless years, no proof existed that the roof would withstand another snowfall. For all he knew, this season was the building's last before it caved in completely. Even with the roof intact, the concern about being snowed in was even greater.

A big puff of air emerged visible in front of him as he sighed in frustration. At least they would have enough food for a while. Coffee, on the other hand...

 _Should have told Frank to get more_ , he thought.

Where was Frank anyway? Still riding? Had he arrived at a safe location? As of present, he would either be unable to make the journey back, or try to do so, get stuck in a drift somewhere, and be frozen solid. Burke could not decide if the latter was more tragic or hilarious.

Rather than return indoors, he lingered, staring aimlessly at the snowflakes which now threatened to overtake the porch. He hated the feeling that raked at his mind, that left a sheen of sweat on his face, that horrible thing known as worry. He had been a lad the last time he worried about anything or anyone, and he hardly wanted to return to that helpless little boy again. That boy actually bothered to care about people, let alone look after them, and what good did it do?

Forcing himself to turn toward the door, he hesitated, hand hovering just above the latch. A thought occurred to Burke as he stood there, brow knitted: what if he just left? Perhaps if he braved the snows, he would be able to leave, with not a care in the world. He could go back to the Eastern coast, maybe the Carolinas. Cavendish's gang would not be able to find him if he left now, before they knew what had happened. He could go back to the way things were... before Butch. Anything to get rid of this god-awful feeling.

Burke felt his heart hammering against his ribs, thinking back on his last adventure with Butch, on the way his life was spared so many times when the outlaw had likely killed others for far less. He remembered how just a few days ago, he very well could have been the one with this damnable putrid fever if Butch had not stepped in.

Biting his bottom lip, he lifted the latch and entered, dousing the fire and pouring himself some coffee.

After he finished, Burke considered making himself even more, but practiced some self-restraint. He would need to conserve if he was stuck out here with a limited supply for however long the storm lasted.

Butch was silent, but the reliable twitches and shudders passed through him. Burke only hoped the dreams were not as bad as they seemed to have recently been.

Coffee would not be enough, especially while he was rationing. He needed something else to do to occupy his time, something that would not rouse Butch from his rest.

Poring over the objects and sparse decor of the interior, his eyes finally rested on the window. His and Butch's clothes were still buried in the snow, and any lice or fleas which may have been on them had been frozen to death days ago. Thinking over Butch's clothing in particular reminded him of Barret's warning.

_The distant past stayed in the past, especially as far as Butch was concerned._

A wise man would heed that warning. Burke was not always very wise. Sneaking back outside, he dug through the snow until he found the clothes. Curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he spread out the articles to get a better look.

Fingers feeling the tattered edges of the dark coat's tails, he turned the piece over to get a better look at the scalp. Here he discovered not one scalp but two. The first of which, the darkest, was long and straight, likely from an Indian. The second however was much fuller and lighter, a mass of red waves. Burke imagined its owner had been something special to become such a trophy.

Butch's trousers still had the belt, holster, and knife still strapped to them. Realizing they might rust and rot in the snow, Burke unfastened them from the material. The gun was nothing special, just a simple Colt .45 that got the job done. No, the weapon that interested Burke far more was the knife, being fond of blades himself. This he handled like fine china, as though some unique magic would be jarred from it if disturbed too roughly. He turned it over in the dim light, examining every inch. It was a butchery knife of some sort, perhaps for skinning, based on the curve of the metal. Rather appropriate, considering what Butch often used the knife for. Burke mused over how it would feel to flatten the blade over his skin, feel the cool metal on his neck, perhaps even tickle the surface with its edge until it drew blood.

He shook his head, allowing a small laugh. Any further foolery such as this and he would have to stick his mickey in the snow. Putting the knife away as carefully as he had removed it, he proceeded to search the pockets.

A few dollar bills, some coins, though not much, hardly even enough to jingle with the wearer's steps. Apart from that, the pockets were empty. Should Burke have been at all surprised? All that the world knew of Butch was what he presented to it. Even so, the clothes had to have been impressive when they were first made. Whether acquired brand new or lifted from a previous owner... they proved Butch had fine taste.

His reverie was not so much broken but shattered when he heard Butch cry out as though in agony, loud enough to penetrate the cabin wall and startle him. Grabbing his friend's weapons, he ran to the door and opened it to find Butch thrashing and writhing in his sleep, fighting against hostile figures present only in his mind. Burke dropped the knife and revolver, instantly at the other man's side.

"Butch?" he said with uncertainty. "Butch wake up."

Blue eyes snapped open but saw nothing. Butch was not awake, not remotely, nor was he living in the present. In his mind, the cabin - and Burke - did not exist and never did.

 _He'll hurt himself_ , Burke thought, and in that exact moment his hands were on Butch, his hold firm but gentle as he grasped for flailing arms.

This was a bad idea. Butch fought even more violently once he had something solid against him. Though weakened by the disease, his strength was unexpected. For a moment Burke thought he might get thrown. Letting go of the straining wrists, he took Butch's face in his hands, ready to stroke hollow cheeks with his thumbs, but again he was met with fear and struggling, Cavendish's body tense and wound tight like a cord near the point of snapping.

Burke was at a loss as he tried everything, patting and caressing every part of his friend's trembling body that might bestow comfort. He tried cheeks, shoulders, the chest, the stomach, even the back, but he was rebuffed at every turn. Butch fought hard against him, at least as hard as his illness would allow, kicking, clawing and pushing, even attempting to strike at Burke at least twice with a clumsy fist, but the Irishman would not withdraw.

"Shh, shh," he whispered between the distressed moans. "Don't do that, luv."

Butch's struggling became so panicked he began to attempt crawling away from the figure who would not let him be. Finally Burke used his bodily weight to pin the other man against the mattress. He knew Butch would hate it, but he refused to let go. He refused to leave his lover to face the nightmares alone.

"No, stay here," he cooed.

The tone of his voice did not matter, not matter how soft, because Butch did not recognize him. Burke's voice was not what he heard in suffocating fog of his fever.

_He could hear the customer above him, gripping him, no, no please, and it was too dark to see him, couldn't see his face, please stop, but he could see the shape, so much bigger than him, heard the man above him speaking, with stinking breath, shushing him with mock gentility, telling him it's alright, no, no, leave me alone, please, stop, and the hands are so strong that he can barely move, touching him in all the places they like to touch, I'll be good, stop it, stop, I don't want, he's so much bigger than him and he can't even get away..._

Burke took the flailing arms in his hands again, holding them against the mattress, above Butch's head, keeping them still.

"Don't fight me, luv, it's alright"--

Butch shut his eyes, knowing what would happen next. It was inevitable, and it would hurt. He could not fight. He could not do anything, except scream. So he did.

Until now, Burke had only ever heard Butch shout, even roar in anger, but he had never once heard him scream. It was an awful, heart-rending sound that he never wanted to hear again, and to hear it from someone who never seemed to show fear until this horrible illness made Burke's blood run cold. The temptation to slap Butch awake, to somehow drag him out of the realm of dreams, was quickly denied. He remembered the clues left by the previous nightmare and knew the same terrible figure ( _figures?_ he silently asked) would have struck him. The suspicion grew ever stronger in Burke's mind that this figure was no mere invention of Butch's own imagination. It was someone from his past, a very real human-skinned monster who had hurt him, and likely hit him countless times.

But what would grant Butch some comfort? Everywhere Burke touched seemed to have been ruined by some soulless bastard who had treated him like a thing. What on God's wretched Earth could possibly calm his suffering friend?

Then he remembered. He remembered images from so many years ago, faces and voices. His mother's voice as she sat at his sister's bedside, and the barely hidden worry on her face. As a lad, Burke sometimes peeked in through the doorway, watching what seemed to have become a ritual for his ma. She had sung to the girl countless times, an act likely useless with someone who did not seem to hear Burke's words of reassurance. But she had done something else...

Taking care not to release the other's straining arms, Burke removed one of his own and flattened his palm against Butch's forehead. Prepared for the worst, he added his other hand, releasing hands which immediately hit and slapped at his back, although ineffectively. Butch was exhausting himself, and he was not only frightened but confused. He sobbed as his attempts at defiance grew weaker. Burke was not certain, but his heart felt like it might be breaking at the sound.

"It's alright." Burke thought he might be reassuring not only Butch but himself. He gently caressed his lover's forehead and temples, wary not to touch or tug at the hair, and Butch, moaning, stopped resisting. Breathing which was once rapid and fearful slowed, and his struggles were reduced to meager shivers. He gave one more frustrated cry, but Burke was not discouraged.

"It's alright," he whispered sweetly. "Shh... it's alright."

Finally quiet, Cavendish's body continued to tremble for a minute more, though the heat of his brow still proved the fever was not relenting. If he continued to dream, he did not communicate such.

Making certain his patient was in a deep sleep, Burke finally rested his forehead against Butch's own, continuing to stroke perspiring temples. He could sleep like this atop Cavendish, but after the display he had just been sole witness to, he doubted the fellow outlaw would appreciate waking up to such a discovery. How strange, not to mention unexpected, that his wish to someday get physically closer to his friend had to come true in such a way, when Butch was in such a dreadful state as this. In the short time they had known one another, Burke never expected the two of them to be in this state of affairs. He had never expected to one day act as this man's caregiver, or for Butch to become so vulnerable, to reveal what he had revealed in his infirmity.

The little house where his mother sat tending to his sister reappeared in his mind, reminding him that caring for others had been a thing left to the past. Still, as little as he had troubled himself over others in the years after he left his boyhood home, a new desire blossomed in his mind, and it came to full bloom as he cautiously eased himself off of the still body beneath him: it was the desire to find whomever had hurt Butch and torture that bastard. Slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a historical accuracy note, according to my research, the Colt .45 revolver did not exist until the early 1870s, but this was the model used in the Lone Ranger film.


	8. Home Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation gets dire, and a desperate Burke tries something unusual.

Burke was beginning to feel like his brains had been replaced with lead and his spine with broken glass. Another day had passed and he needed sleep badly, but he refused to give in to the urge. The longest he could manage were in moments where his head might fall backwards and hit the wall behind him. He refused to lay down, gripped by the dreadful notion that the moment he was fast asleep, something might happen.

A few times Butch would wake for a piss and stay alert just long enough that Burke could also get him to nibble on some food and more importantly, drink water. Otherwise he remained in the realm of sleep, somewhat safer from his physical discomfort but easy prey to his cruel dreams.

A day had passed since that worrying display where Butch had fought and screamed in his sleep, and though he had not repeated that brand of torment, his nightmares still made themselves known. Twice he had moaned in his sleep, muttered some plea for mercy, and shivered in terror, and during the first of the two he actually swung his fist at Burke when comfort was offered. Both times Burke performed what had worked the previous day, and to his gratification, the attempt ended both times in success. With gentle caresses to his friend's brow and temples, Butch eventually quieted, and his shaking subsided.

However, the silence had become worrying. Gone were the twitches and kicks, and his muttering, though cause for concern, at least proved he had some spirit left in him. Were it not for slow, near imperceptible rising and falling of his chest, Butch looked dead. Would he slip away at any moment? The fear that notion caused felt like the only thing keeping the other man awake.

Burke was at a loss. Without medicine to quiet his brutal symptoms, Butch was in danger of expiring just from enduring the typhus on his own. The Irishman fiddled with his knife as he wracked his brain, desperate to remember something else, anything that might help ease his friend's suffering.

Butch, coated with sweat and his limbs spread in an unconscious - as well as fruitless - effort to keep himself cool, left his arms off of the mattress, one of which turned so that the underside of the wrist was visible. Burke stared at the veins just under the surface of the skin, blue and ghostly. As a boy, he remembered the town doctor bleeding patients, especially his sister, and he cringed, the image of her frail arm held out as the red liquid poured so brightly from her white skin. At the time, he had imagined her shriveling up like a dead leaf from the bloodletting. No, with Butch already losing so much fluid, getting rid of anymore, blood or sweat, sounded too risky.

He had to be forgetting something; there had to be more! And he had to stay awake!

Frustrated, he slowly pressed the tip of his knife into his thumb in an attempt to keep himself alert. Predictably, the skin broke, and blood welled up around the blade. But fleeting pain did little to stave off the insufferable fog that was his exhaustion. About to suck on the tiny wound, a movement to his right caught his eye.

Butch was still asleep, but he had moved. His head turned toward Burke, and he sniffed at the air. Eyes wide in disbelief, Burke glanced back and forth between his hand and his sick friend. He leaned closer, holding out his injured hand, and for a moment he imagined Butch leaping onto him, strength regained and hunger ravenous, but the unconscious man stayed put. However, he did lick his chapped lips at the smell of the blood.

Burke was speechless at the notion, thinking he might be imagining what was happening. Perhaps he was asleep after all. No, his thumb still hurt from the pricking of the skin. Hearing Cavendish mutter something unintelligible, he looked down at his friend's flushed visage. A tattooed hand cupped the other man's burning, hollow cheek.

He had tried everything else, and he did not want Butch to die. Perhaps he was the one that needed to be bled in order to heal his lover. Readying the tip of his knife at the junction between hand and wrist, he pressed again, wincing.

"Ye better not drain me dry, ye wee flesh eater," he muttered with a joyless laugh.

Patting a perspiring forehead, Burke lowered his arm over Butch's parted lips. Blood dripped steadily, and even unconscious, Butch eagerly drank. Burke had to admit to himself that the scene he now played a part in looked like something from a dark folktale. Even he felt slightly unnerved by what he had done in desperation, but as long as the older outlaw did not latch onto him like a leech, he would gladly endure. A soft moan followed less than a minute later, and Butch turned his head away, having had his fill. His Irish friend pulled back his hand, sucking at the superficial wounds and tasting the copper of his blood. It did not taste dreadful, but Burke still could not fathom the idea of living off of it, much less another person's flesh.

Sitting back with his worries swimming about in his head like fish in a feeding frenzy, he caught himself nodding off not ten minutes later. Hovering over his patient to ascertain any changes in health, he noted with some guarded satisfaction that Butch did not look any worse. In fact, though he was not quite sure in this dim light, Butch already seemed to look better, his overly ruddy complexion apparently faded. Lifting the damp sheet, Burke thought the rash on Cavendish's body might have been starting to dissipate. Drifting his knuckles against his lover's brow, he smiled when he felt Butch weakly lean into the touch.

Settling back on his haunches, Burke sighed, rubbing at his eyes. He did not want to get his hopes up only to have them dashed. He needed to stay vigilant. Opening the package of coffee, he poured the lot down his gullet. He would likely end up regretting it, but presently could have cared less.

A whispering breath of a moan turned his attention back to Butch, who squirmed, trembled for three seconds, then stilled. Burke wondered, what if his friend dreamed despite his stillness, trapped wherever his memories took him and still lost in his pain and horror? And they were memories, Burke had no doubt about that. If the first signs had not been enough, the previous day had confirmed it. What the hell had happened to him, or rather who? His father, possibly? The tattooed outlaw wondered if Butch would ever bring himself to explain, if he lived through his fever.

Maybe the coffee was taking effect and making him giddy, but Burke was starting to feel his old self coming back, the cheery obnoxious Burke that insisted his fellow outlaw would indeed survive. If so, Butch was a bloody tough old bastard.

Shaking his head, Burke sat back at his usual post, pondering what had transpired. If Butch's health was improving, was it because of the blood, or was it mere coincidence? Brought back to memories of old fairytales in his country of birth, he mused the entertaining notion that his friend's cannibalism brought him certain facilities, gave him the power to heal himself.

If so... Burke thought he might just deal with being sick instead.

*

Another day passed quietly, though not to the point of being disquieting, as it had previously. Butch continued to sleep, though not deep enough to suggest death, and whenever his nightmares intruded outside of his head, Burke easily soothed him.

As expected, swallowing the remainder of the coffee grounds ended regretfully. For the first ten hours or so after ingesting, Burke felt something beyond awareness, jumping at the sound of melting snow falling off the roof, only to feel his exhaustion return with the impact of a speeding train. And with no more coffee left to keep his brains from shutting down completely, he was unable to fight the urge. Though further falling snow jolted him awake at least twice, he felt himself slipping until darkness overtook him and he felt nothing else.

By the time he awoke, the sun was already approaching the horizon. Still drowsy, he nearly went back to sleep when he happened to glance toward Butch, who was still alive. He could tell because the man was shaking. Curled up on his side in as tight a ball as possible, Butch shivered from head to foot. Instantly Burke was at his side, ready to draw him out of the worst of his dreams again.

Placing a hand on Butch's forehead, Burke pulled away just as quickly. He expected the skin to be hot, as it had been for a week, but now it was simply warm. Butch was not dreaming. He was cold; he was practically hacking teeth. His fever had abated.

"There," Burke whispered, grinning as he caressed the other's brow. "There's a lad."

Grabbing the blankets that had been kicked aside a week ago, he gingerly lay them over Butch, whose tense form seemed to immediately unravel and relax. Burke felt a little more keen on relaxing as well, and though his optimism was more cautious, he had a feeling Butch was on his way to recovery.

Rather than return to his seat against the wall, Burke leaned back and lay at Butch's side, using the mattress as a pillow for his head. He smiled as he felt the body near him become still, his shivering breaths turning calm and steady. Near his head, a hand twitched through the blankets, and were his lover awake, the tattooed man might have taken it in his own. Instead, he nuzzled into it, taking a deep breath and exhaling before he joined Cavendish in sleep.

*

Dark. Everything was dark.

Too dark for the room where he was usually kept. Was he in the cellar? He tried to remember what the hell he had done this time to put him there, could think of nothing, and decided to look for a way out instead.

 _This time_ , he thought. _This time I'll get away._

The slightest sliver of light caught his blurred vision. A door outside? He reached for it, ready to attempt an escape, when he noticed the size of his raised hand, the size of an adult's hand.

_Wait. That's right._

Blinking, he looked around, eyes straining in the dark, and confirmed he was in neither a cellar or that awful room. Lifting his head, he looked around the interior of the cabin, silent and dark, except for the sliver of light out the window. Either the sun was going down or coming up, though he could not tell which yet.

Squirming on the mattress, Butch thought about how strange he felt covered in three blankets. In spite of what little he could remember of the few moments he had been awake, his memory beyond that was perfectly sound, and he distinctly remembered being too hot to withstand even the winter temperatures. As he removed his arms from under the covers, he was faintly surprised at the chill he felt on his exposed skin.

His eyesight fully adjusted, he saw the sleeping figure at his side, dark curving lines visible on the other's jaw. Butch placed a hand on the nearby head, touching his friend's cheek. Not surprisingly, Burke did not even move. So Butch lifted his hand and slapped him.

"Mn..." Eyebrows reached for hairline as Burke slowly awoke. As his sleep-addled brain processed what had just happened, he became fully alert, moving from on his back to kneeling over Butch in the blink of an eye.

"Hullo, sweet'eart," he said, beaming. He had good reason to smile. For the first time in over a week, Butch looked clear-headed.

"How long was I out?"

Burke nearly put a hand against his friend's cheek, forgetting himself in the joy he felt. "All in all? About a week."

Butch looked up at the ceiling, not exactly in disbelief but faintly surprised. "I don't think I've slept so much in my whole life."

Dragging his elbows behind him, he lifted himself to sit up, but already an illustrated hand was gently grasping his shoulder.

"Ah-ah!" Burke rose to his feet, guiding a bewildered Cavendish back to the mattress. "Stay still. I'm still lookin' after ye." And then he was off to the pot.

And Butch did stay still, at least for the time being. After having slept for a week in the haze of a hellish fever, he was not exactly in the mood to resist and start fights. Even attempting to sit up made him feel dizzy. Also, though he would not admit it, he found himself liking the idea of Burke taking care of him. Rubbing at his face, still coated in perspiration, he excused the thought as the remnants of his illness talking. After all, the dreaded Butch Cavendish did not need anyone looking after him, not even when he felt... a little faint.

"Here," Burke returned with a now full bowl, more giving water than offering. He placed a hand beneath Butch's shoulders, tenderly lifting so that the other man could drink without having to sit up. Butch held back a smirk. He thought he might get used to this sort of treatment.

As he slowly continued to drink, he felt Burke pointedly lean an inky cheek against his forehead, a strangely affectionate gesture. Once he was finished with the water, he felt the cheek replaced by a hand.

"Sound as a bell, luv. Or at least more so than before."

Butch said nothing as the bowl was returned to the floor. The palm against his brow brought images to his mind instantly, images which could not be from his dreams. Most of his delirious state was a blur to him, and what he could remember since waking he had dismissed as nightmares and hallucinations brought on by the fever. Yet the contact between them brought on a vision of Burke with a damp cloth, wiping the older outlaw's brow and singing one of his songs. He remembered the feeling of hands caressing his temples and the sound of a gentle voice. But he remembered other things as well. Troubling things.

Burke was about to step away from the bedside when Butch grabbed him by the wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong for a sick man, and the Irishman winced under the hold. Green, confused eyes met fierce blue as they stared at one another for a handful of uncertain seconds, one less certain than the other. Butch looked at the younger man's hand - what the hell was that wound at Burke's wrist? - then back at Burke.

"What did I say?" he asked. Burke did not have to ask to what his friend referred.

"Not much," he replied. The grip tightened, urging him to elaborate. "Ye begged someone to stop."

"Stop what?" Butch rasped, sitting straight up.

Burke recognized the tone all too well, but the look in his friend's eyes revealed more than just anger. Fear flickered there, proving the other's speculation. The dreams were not simply dreams, but memories, and Butch was ashamed of them.

"Dunno," Burke replied. "But ye sounded like ye were in pain."

Something passed over Butch's expression for barely a second, more than just fear: helplessness. His arm still held in a steel grip, Burke thought it best to change the subject.

"Snow's stopped fallin'. Melted a little too from the sound of it. At this rate, maybe Frank's not become a scrawny snowman..."

Butch did not seem to care about Frank or the snow, letting go of Burke and looking everywhere but his direction.

"I remember your voice," he muttered.

"Hopefully I didn't keep ye wakeful." Burke lit the fire under the trivet, prepared to add more snow to the dwindling water supply.

"You sang one of your damn songs."

"Sorry."

"It put me to sleep."

Burke chuckled, not to make light of the answer, but to express his relief.

"I'm glad of it. Not every song I sing is to annoy ye." He returned to Butch's side, raising a hand but not yet touching him. "Can we see if the skin's cleared up?"

Though slumped forward and quiet, Butch remained seated, allowing his skin to be inspected for the rash of his typhus infection. He mostly ignored his friend's ministrations, too caught up in his own thoughts. Part of him would have rather withstood putrid fever alone, even if it meant dying, so that the past remained with him. He had never told anyone about his childhood, and as far as anyone else was concerned, Butch Cavendish as a child never existed. That child would have still been hidden in the past if he had not been too sick to control his stupid mouth.

As much as he regretted his weakness, he knew this could not easily be swept under the rug. Burke's curiosity had been awoken. And vague clues revealed in Butch's sleep would not be enough for someone as stubborn and inexorable as Burke.

So what could he do? Cavendish's first thought was to kill him.

"Rash is clearin' brill'intly," Burke said, knocking Butch from his trance. He put a reassuring hand on a slouching shoulder, wanting to touch hair instead but knowing the response would likely make him regret being so impudent.

"When this is all over, we should find a nice hotel," he suggested, sitting down in front of his friend. "Get a good long bath. A hot one." He winked.

Butch was not swayed by the other's usual charisma. He finally looked at Burke, eyes darting to a certain wound.

"What's that spot on your arm?" he asked. "That knick."

Burke looked down at his wrist, absent-mindedly twisting his hand as he gave an awkward laugh. He lifted his hand as he tried to think of a way to explain. If his attempt to heal Butch had felt strange before, it would feel even more so describing it.

"I uh..." He cleared his throat, a poor attempt at stalling for time. "I didn't know what else to do. And ye seemed eager for it..."

"Eager for what?" Butch's voice was harder. He was in no mood to wait through this nonsense. Burke shut his eyes, knowing he should just spit out his confession.

"I fed ye some of my blood."

Butch stared at him. Whatever he had thought Burke might say, this was not what he had expected. His brain, still in a haze from illness and sleep, tried to manage what it had just heard.

"What?"

Burke kept his friendly smile, but as he rambled on, his expression looked less charming and more comically forced.

"I mean I know how ye love that on a good day, and I wanted to help, and..."

He shut his mouth when his wrist was once again taken in Butch's own hands. The older man spread out the pale fingers, inspecting his lover's palm, looking closely at the red mark where a knife had entered. Burke could hardly guess what went on in Cavendish's brain, and in moments such as these, he knew asking would reward him with utter silence, if not a threat or violent attack, so he simply let Butch do as he pleased. This was beyond certain boundaries that Burke had by now become familiar with, and based on all that he had heard and seen within the past week, he could see why those boundaries had been set.

Butch stared at the wound almost a full minute until he quietly sighed. Burke thought it was a strangely sad sound, at least to have come from a man such as this. Hard edges disappeared from the other's expression and he leaned forward, placing his weight onto Burke. Their foreheads met, a gesture initiated by Butch, and they remained this way for a few seconds. Temptation combined with anticipation, and Burke took what he perceived (hoped anyway) was a need for reassurance and slowly, carefully acted on it. He tilted his face upward and lips met one another.

His assumption turned out to be correct. Butch allowed the kiss, even parting his lips, though he also ended it five seconds later, licking his malformed lips as though to save the remnants of the other's taste. Neither spoke at first, until Burke could no longer bare the discomfited silence.

"Still a wee too warm for my tastes," he declared with a smile. "Ye should eat something now that ye're doing better."

"Later," Butch settled back onto the mattress, pulling the blankets back onto himself. "I'm gonna sleep some more. Then we can eat."

"At least have some more water...?"

Butch turned onto his side and looked at the Irishman, lifting an eyebrow. Perhaps if he complied, he would be pampered just a little longer. He considered playing weaker than he really was so that he might be hand-fed again, smirked, and picked the bowl up by himself instead, drinking whatever was left. Burke smiled and stood up to head outside for more snow for the pot. Before his companion was out of sight, something occurred to Butch and he spoke up.

"Where'r my clothes?"

"In the snow," Burke calmly replied, striding just as casually out the door.

Butch looked up at the ceiling once more and, deciding he was too tired to want to know yet, curled up into the blankets. He was asleep within minutes.


	9. Snow and Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The welcome(?) return of a dear friend.

The next two days passed relatively peacefully. Butch's fever did not return to its worst temperatures, but Burke continued to keep him in bed, and the older outlaw only humored him to further enjoy being waited on, hand and foot. Burke felt secure in his friend's condition to the point of resuming a somewhat normal schedule of sleep, though he still insisted on doing everything for Butch, including holding the bucket whenever the need to urinate arrived.

On the afternoon of the second day, Burke was watching Butch sleep when he heard the distant, muffled sounds of a horse approaching through the snow. Fingers tracing the edges of his revolver, he rose from the floor, peered out the window at the oncoming silhouette, and crept toward the door as he continued to listen. He hoped the visitor would be Frank, but was careful all the same. The weather meant less of a chance of travelers in the area, though any who were indeed outside would eagerly take shelter in this cabin if they happened by it.

Ear pressed against the door, Burke heard the horse stop, followed by the crunching sound of the rider's feet landing in the snow. After some clumsy shuffling, as well as some muttered curses, Burke recognized his visitor and smiled. Just as he heard footsteps on the porch, his hand went from gun to knife, and he swung open the door, blade out.

The sound Frank produced as the weapon rested just under his nose was akin to the squeak of a kitten.

"I got the provisions," he managed to get out. Crammed under his arms were several bundles and in one hand was a dead chicken, hanging by its legs.

Burke smiled, keeping his knife out.

"Didn' ye just leave?" he asked slyly. "Put away your horse. I'll see to your groceries."

Hands and fingers barely able to move from the cold, Frank hurried in tethering, feeding, and watering the horses, rushing inside the moment he was done. As he stumbled through the door, Burke wordlessly hushed him, finger to lips, while pointing at the mattress where Butch slept.

"Couldn't get no opium," Frank whispered, "but I got other stuff. Willow bark, camphor..."

"Coffee?" Burke questioned, adding some kindling to the little fire.

"We should have some left in one of the..." the scrawny man trailed off, turning to point at the rucksacks, and saw Burke holding an empty packet where ground coffee was once stored. His face fell like a child who was told his birthday celebration had been canceled.

"Damn."

"Well, that broth won't make itself. Dress the chicken, won't ye?" Burke paused, then winked. "And I don't mean put it in a pretty gown."

Frank scowled.

As soon as the soup was ready, Burke extinguished the flames, much to Frank's discontent.

"I saw the rest of the gang," he said, watching the Irishman stir the pot. "They've been stayin' on the outskirts of the steel town. Turns out the whole place was run through with putrid fever."

"Ah," Burke replied casually. "Izzat a fact?"

Frank stared at the pot, nibbling on his bottom lip. He clearly had more to say but was hesitant. Burke suspected this was how Butch had felt two days prior.

"Spit it out already, Frank." Burke produced three bowls to fill with the soup. Two of which received genuine pieces of chicken, while the other was filled with only broth.

"They were worried about leavin' the two a'you alone in the storm," Frank confessed. "Most especially you. Said you might just cut n'run with the pelts and munitions."

"They hurt me'heart," Burke stated in false disappointment. "After all the times we've shared..."

"Also," Frank swallowed, timidly taking the bowl offered to him. "They wouldn't say it, but I will... they're worried about Butch, him bein' sick. We all are."

"Ain't no reason t'be worried."

Frank seemed to nearly jump out of his skin when he heard his leader's voice, but his fear quickly transformed into relieved joy.

"Butch!" he cried. "Yer alive!"

"A'course I'm alive," Butch sneered as he sat up, grabbing the nearby bucket and urinating where he sat. With his back turned to the two, skin exposed, very little of the rash presented itself.

"I'll empty that," Burke offered, hand out as he leaned over Butch. At this angle he was able to better see his friend's skin, and he would have attempted a kiss at the sight of completely clear skin if Frank was not present. The rash was fully gone.

"You should see the town, Butch," Frank said, eagerly holding the bowl of broth out for his boss to take. "Most'a them are gone, either sick or scared shitless to stick around. We've been waitin', wanted to ask ya if we could take it over, maybe for a little holiday celebration..."

Burke heard Frank's voice ramble on as he dumped the urine outside and was perplexed that anyone could speak for so long without having to take a new breath. In the short time he had left the cabin and returned, he could see that already Butch had regretted making his wakefulness known. Sitting cross-legged with the blankets enveloping him, Butch held the bowl steady in his hands as he slowly drank the broth. Frank yammered on and on, but his leader did not seem to pay him any attention.

"Yer soup's gettin' cold, pet," Burke said, poking the youth in the side. His treatment of Frank reminded Butch of some dutiful parent, and Frank's obedient response only further perpetuated that notion. The tattooed man's interruption did Butch a favor though: it shut their compatriot's mouth, if only for a short while. Both cannibal and arsonist took the opportunity to enjoy their meal in silence.

Shortly after their dinner, Burke noticed the fading sunlight and decided to retrieve his and Butch's clothes. In the worst of his friend's illness, he had completely forgotten about them, and at present he resolved to dry them for the group's eventual departure.

"Want summore, Butch?" he heard as he left the cabin. By the time he had uncovered the wet articles and returned, he was surprised that Frank was not wearing his bowl and suffering burns from spilled broth.

"We'll hang these by the fire as long as possible," he announced, finding the rickety old hat rack he remembered from a year ago and spreading the clothing over it. "Whatever took a nibble on ye's been long dead now."

 _Perhaps once you're back to your grumpy old self, you can have a nibble on me_ , he happily thought.

Butch, having had his fill, left his empty bowl on the floor and adjusted the blankets wrapped around him. Knees drawn up to his chest, only his head - and the occasional hand - were visible in the bundle. Burke would not say it out loud, but he thought Butch looked damn endearing this way. His expression was not missed by the recovering man.

"What the hell're you grinnin' at?" he grumbled.

Burke's smile did not fade. "I'm glad your fever's gone."


	10. The Birth of Butch Cavendish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Butch and Burke finally have a long due conversation.

With Frank's perilous journey and Butch still not fully recovered, bedtime arrived shortly after the sun had fully set. Though most of his symptoms had calmed, the eldest outlaw's bowl was filled a second time with broth (as well as a combination of the acquired medicines), and Burke shoved the serving into his hands. Giving his friend an annoyed look, Cavendish hardly felt sick enough to need medicine anymore, but drank the broth anyway. With the clues he had stupidly revealed in his fever dreams, he did not want to take his chances.

Sleeping arrangements had changed since the day the three outlaws had set foot in the cabin. Rather than sleep on the floor with Frank and leave the mattress entirely to Butch, Burke joined the gang's leader on the bedding.

"Need to stay warm, mate," Burke declared, laying the blankets over the both of them as he settled in. Butch seemed to ignore him, eyes shut and attempting to sleep. Burke turned his head to regard Frank, who sat amidst furs and blankets, staring at him.

"We won't need so much to keep us warm this way, brother," the Irishman said. "More for you. Ye can wrap yourself in the rest and curl up like a butterfly in a cocoon."

Frank hesitated, glancing at the remaining skins, then at Burke, his expression looking a little suspicious for a moment.

"I like butterflies," he finally muttered, grasping his generous sharing of bedclothes and bundling up before laying down. Eyes shut, he rocked left and right for a few seconds as though imagining himself as a big caterpillar. Burke grinned. For someone crazy enough to run alongside the likes of Butch, Frank could be fairly damn adorable.

Butch opened an eye and watched as the youth relaxed on the floor and eased into slumber. If Frank found anything peculiar about his boss allowing Burke into bed with him, he did not indicate such. Likely because he knew better.

Turning over and curling into a tighter ball, Butch inched away from Burke on the small space of the mattress. Though he appreciated the additional warmth, he was tempted to shove the other man onto the floor. He did not need any comfort or reassurance, especially not when he had surpassed the worst of the typhus, and he hardly wanted to see or hear anything of someone who had heard his past blabbered out in his sleep.

Still... he had survived this entire week thanks to Burke. Not to mention Burke gave up his own blood to make things right. He supposed the ink-laden fool could stay... despite the annoying suspicion that he was being gawked at.

Burke spent the next half hour staring at the back of Butch's head as he lay beside him. He wished he could better warm his friend, hold him from behind, maybe stroke the long strands of hair, but he knew the consequences of going down that perilous path, even if such a risk only tempted him further. He raised a hand, paused, and decided against it. Closing his eyes, he sighed and focused on finding sleep.

*

_He was not a man. He was a child. He knew he was in his home before he could properly see his surroundings. The hallway where he stood was as dark and sinister as the clouds outside the nearby window. The voices of his parents, angry and accusing, were twisted and warped in a room at one end of the hall, while his sister lay sleeping in a room at the other end. If ma and da did not stop fighting, they'd wake her. She'd been having one of her bad times again, and she needed the rest._

_Then he heard her cry out. His parents had heard it too, and they went rushing past him, his little legs not fast enough to keep up. By the time he joined them at her bedside, he could see she was in great distress. Something unseen seemed to be pinning her to the bed._

_But it wasn't her. It was Butch._

_Suddenly the unseen figure atop of him appeared, a figure all black, enormous and billowing, as though the storm clouds had descended from the sky to attack Butch. As it turned to look at him with its faceless head, Burke heard his sister's scream echo through the house._

*

Drifting awake, Burke felt relief wash over him as he realized he had only been dreaming. Dawn was approaching, entering the window and filling the cabin with a faint blue glow. Butch still lay motionless in front of him on the mattress, back to his usual twitches and kicks, and Burke thought back on just how terrible the older outlaw's nightmares must have been in comparison.

As though being watched was enough to wake him, Butch stirred, yawned, and turned over to face the other. Both knew something had to be discussed. Burke had questions, and Butch had to decide if he would answer them. Someone needed to start this, and Burke decided that someone would be him.

"It's good to see ye well again," he said, voice low so as not to wake Frank.

Butch huffed. "Yer just glad I was sick, 'steada you."

"No," Burke smiled. "I'd be glad to take it over you any day."

Butch inspected the tattooed face for any hint of dishonesty, but Burke's response seemed genuine. The scarred outlaw rolled his eyes. Sentimental bastard...

"Yer too damned soft. In the head."

Burke chuckled, undeterred as ever. Glancing behind him and determining the third in their party to still be asleep, he moved on to the inevitable.

"Somethin' like typhus... that doesn't just stall the digger. Ye had it before?"

Butch averted his eyes, silent as he considered how he should answer.

"I tole ya," he finally said. "I been around enough sickness, likely been around that too."

"As a boy, if I remember your words." Burke shifted in place, resting his head on his hand. "What brings a wee lad to be so close to that?"

Butch looked back at him, and something dangerous glinted in his ghostly blue eyes.

"You ask a'awful lot about me," he said, his tone accusatory. "I still don't know much about you."

This time, Burke avoided his gaze, and the hand he rested against rubbed at the back of his neck, grinning bashfully. "Not much to know."

Irritated, Butch narrowed his eyes, a wordless warning that he not be trifled with.

"Ya got no right to close up when yer the one always wantin' to know about my past."

Grimacing, Burke conceded his lover had a point. However, he would have rather simply retreated back into his usual facade, that dauntless charm and affinity for trouble everyone else knew. He liked thinking about his past just as much as Butch did. Frank was still snoring behind them, which was a comfort. Hopefully the little runt would stay asleep long enough for Cavendish to give up some of his own secrets by the end of their talk.

"What d'ye want to know?"

"Who's Aoife?"

The question might as well have been a slap in the face. Burke was speechless at first, which prompted Butch to explain.

"You said the name not less'n an hour ago." He gave a terse, joyless laugh. "Seems I ain't the only one givin' up secrets in my sleep."

Head returning to rest on his hand, Burke cleared his throat, evidently shaken but regaining some of his relaxed exterior. "She was my sister."

"Was?"

"Died when I was eleven," he replied, looking away. "Always sick with somethin' or other. I suppose minding you dug up old memories for me too."

"Was it quick? Did she die slow?"

Burke sniffed crossly, but he knew what Butch was doing. The old bastard did not want to discuss his own past, nor did he want to be the only one feeling humiliated. He answered nonetheless.

"I don't know. Me ma screamed one day and I ran in and saw her dead. We'd been doing chores... rather I'd been skirtin' chores. For all I know it was slow."

Butch asked no more questions, apparently satisfied with the response. Now it was Burke's turn.

"What did ye dream of?"

Cavendish shut his eyes for a moment, as though to answer was painful. Burke decided to approach the subject from a different angle, though he knew he was heading into dangerous territory. For all he knew, he was about to be tossed into the snow with his throat cut.

"What happened to the man that hurt ye?" Part of Burke hoped whomever had treated Butch like garbage was somehow still alive after all these years, just so that he could personally hunt down the bastard and eviscerate him. Perhaps then stuff the body with dynamite and light a fuse.

At first he thought Butch had shut himself off from him completely. Then marred lips opened and gave an answer far worse.

"Men."

Burke felt a sinking sensation in his gut. He hoped the sadness that might have appeared in his eyes was not interpreted as pity. The last thing Butch needed or wanted was pity.

"How many men?" he asked.

"Never counted."

The emptiness of the words in Butch's answer was incredibly sad. Burke had a feeling the other outlaw had indeed counted and knew the number, but did not wish to disclose. What was truly unexpected was that Butch had been revealing as much as he was.

"When did"--

"Don't fuckin' interrupt, lemme just get this out." Looking over Burke's shoulder at the still snoring form on the floor, he took a deep breath, preparing himself. Butch lay very still against his bedding, like a cornered animal ready to spring and latch onto its pursuer.

"Just for the briefest moment, I can see it and smell it again, like it's all right there in front of me."

Burke eased himself completely onto the mattress, laying parallel to Butch under the covers. His full attention belonged to his friend.

"Men on a wagon picked me up when I was just a boy. Said I'd be good for a job. I'd have food, money, roof over my head." He glanced away, his expression bitter - at his childhood naiveté?

"What did I know, I was eight. I went with'em. They sold it real good to me, told me all I had to do was follow the rules." He seemed to shrink within the bedcovers for a few seconds, a return to his formerly sick state. "Stay put, stay quiet... and let the customers do whatever pleased'em."

So... that's where he went when he slept. Upon first meeting with the notorious cannibal outlaw, Burke might have guessed all manner of legend-worthy explanations that might illustrate Butch Cavendish's past. But being raised as a whore since childhood was not one of them. A lump formed in Burke's throat that he could not quite swallow down.

Moments from those appalling years brought a distant look to Butch's expression. Burke knew he was not allowed to interrupt, but when the silence went on for more than half a minute, he felt he had to do something. Of course Butch would not welcome being touched, not in a time such as this, but remaining stuck in his own dark memories did him no good either. As gently as possible, Burke rubbed one of his feet against his friend's shin. Butch blinked, returning to the present.

"I weren't about to stick around when I realized what was happening," he continued. "I tried to leave, told myself they couldn' keep me there more'n a day. But I was a damn kid, what the hell could I do? You act out, try to escape, you get punished. Some days it meant no food, other days... they liked to see how far you can last. Under pain."

Burke thought about the missing toes. He watched as Butch's eyes squeezed shut, and wondered just how vivid the memories were when forced to relive them.

"I got more clientele than they expected. Maybe it was that missing tooth, they liked how it felt. Maybe they just liked the idea of a boy. Funny thing is... all those years later, they thought they had me good. Thought I was theirs 'til the day I died. But they never broke me." Cavendish gave a cynical smirk. "Broke them instead. One night I decided I had enough. I had a customer with me."

The suspense was terrible. Burke could not resist asking:

"What happened?"

"I bit off his cock."

The surprised laughter which bubbled up from his tattooed throat was such that Burke shoved his face into the pillow beneath him, muffling his voice so that he would not wake Frank. Butch only waited for him to stop. Frank continued to sleep.

"M'sorry," the Irishman said, regaining control of himself. "I just can't think of anythin' more fittin'."

"I ate him after that. Parts of him. First time I ever done it." The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he thought back on his first real triumph, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"How old were ye?" Burke asked.

"Sixteen." He arched his back, a failed attempt to remove a kink from his spine, then settled. "Didn't much care what would happen when they ran in and saw what I'd done."

That was only a partial truth. What happened to him mattered little after he closed his jaws, but the act itself was everything to him. Only then when he sank his teeth into that repulsive, rank man did he no longer feel like a child. Only when he had torn away strips of stinking flesh, and felt the hot blood stream down his throat, when he had swallowed pieces of him and stood facing Ms. Marla and her brutes did he feel that thrill he wanted to feel over and over again. When he saw the fear in their eyes at the horrible, demonic sight of him, he felt strong. He felt reborn.

"But ye got away, right?" Burke asked, captivated like a child being told a fairytale. Butch smirked.

"I got a hold of the bastard's Colt and knife. First time I ever fired a gun." The smirk became a grin, and Burke knew the feeling behind that grin; he had felt the same way when he first pulled a trigger himself.

"Managed to get out through a window. They didn't chase me. House of sin makin' it known they had a worker killin' customers and all... Told patrons I died." He chuckled. "You can probably picture their surprise when I paid them a little visit."

Burke was practically over the moon. This was the version of Butch he knew and loved.

"Ye hunted them down?"

"Every one of 'em. Ten years, give or take a year, I tracked 'em all. Woulda taken longer, but I found connections."

"Connections," Burke echoed, hoping for elaboration. He was rewarded with none. Even so, the story was coming easier to tell, once the worst of it was out of the way.

"Each and every sorry bastard, I did the same to them as I done to the first." Butch continued. "I thought it seemed fittin'."

The thought of each kill brought a smile to his scarred face. One man he ambushed in an alleyway, another in the dead of night while friends slept nearby, none the wiser until morning when they found their comrade staring into space with his guts and privates strewn out and eaten by insects. One of them had been waiting in bed in a brothel for another whore, and Butch saw it appropriate to take on a disguise. In the dimly lit room, the wretched bastard felt the woman he had been awaiting climb onto the bed with him, and he reached down to take a fistful of her auburn curls, only for the hair to come away in his hand. What he thought was a waif of a female revealed itself to be a vengeful young man with silver in his teeth where a gap once lay. Butch tore off the man's face after that and ran off with a new meal of improvised sirloin.

"At first, eatin'em, I did it because that's what I did with the first one. And they couldn't just die like any other bastard out there. They had to die slow... knowin' who it was killed'em, knowin' I took somethin' from them for what they did to me."

Burke could only imagine the level of grotesquery dealt to these men by his lover, and the pleased expression on Butch's face was beginning to please him in an entirely different fashion. He doubted the other outlaw was in the same mood for such attention, however.

"Turned out I got a taste for it. Weren't the worst thing to happen." His grin faded. "What weren't so great... I killed every goddamned one of them, but it don't undo what they did. Got my revenge alright, but you saw just a few days ago it's still hidin' away there in my brain."

He blinked and the distant look in his eyes vanished, his usual swagger starting to return once more. "Don't mean I wouldn't do it all over again."

Burke beamed. "... and thus the magnificent beast known as Butch Cavendish was born," he added. "Striking fear in all the manky scum of the world. Save for one handsome, charismatic, utterly irresistible rogue, who was beaten and shot and a wee bit of a bastard..."

Butch managed a small smile at the latter remark.

"... and went on to keep his restless beloved awake with silly songs." Burke paused, his expression and tone turning slightly apologetic. "And remind him of unwelcome nightmares."

"Only when the fever was bad," Butch shrugged. "That ain't what I've been dreaming of lately."

"So what _do_ you dream of?"

Butch's expression screwed up in thought, brow knitted at the curious truth.

"Fireflies."

Burke grinned, amused by the notion that any outlaw half as coarse as Butch could dream something so innocent. Then again, his split-lipped friend was likely dreaming of smashing them; Burke knew he would have.

"Are ye cold?" he asked when he saw the other man squirm. Butch grunted an affirmative and allowed Burke to inch closer, sharing his own warmth but minding where his hands came to rest. The pair lay facing one another, Butch staring at Burke - always searching for signs of deceit or betrayal, even in those he trusted most - and Burke staring back, simply because he was being stared at. The only sounds which accompanied them where the gusts of wind howling outside and the mild snores of a human-sized caterpillar.

In the end, Butch was the first to close his eyes, his strength still not what it should have been thanks to putrid fever. Yet Burke continued to stare, watching the way severe features softened and became peaceful, and he could pinpoint the exact moment where Butch was sound asleep. The scarred outlaw sank under the covers as the sun began to rise over the horizon.

The tattooed outlaw settled onto his back, listening to Butch's steady breaths beyond the outside winds and nearby snores. More had been revealed to him tonight than he had expected, and as far as he could determine, Cavendish had been telling him the truth. He still wondered what connections his friend referred to, but he could wait. He could be patient if necessary; he owed Butch that much, considering how much he had been told without losing a limb.

What a hellish ride this had been. Burke remembered his remark concerning them staying at a nice hotel once they were able to brave the snow. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. If the town had emptied out as Frank said, perhaps the gang could truly exploit its hospitality. And if so, Burke was going to treat Butch to a very special night. As he got comfortable beside his savage sweetheart, a plan began to form in his head as to the future night's details. As he joined Butch in sleep, he decided his plan would be enacted, and he wondered how he could be so bloody brilliant.


	11. Special Treatment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally well enough to travel, Butch reunites with his gang and enjoys himself in town, especially the surprise Burke has in store for him.

Another day passed where Burke liked neither the depth of the snow or Butch's condition, despite Butch's fervent grumbling and complaining. Butch especially did not like being told what to do in front of one of his own men. If word spread that he was being bossed around by a man hardly even a part of his own gang, so many decades of building his reputation would have been all for complete horse shit. He would have to kill the whole gang and start from scratch.

"I'm just making sure ye stay fit before we return," Burke reasoned as they ate their dinner. Frank had finished ahead of them and excused himself to tend to the horses, leaving the two to share a private moment together, however brief. Burke leaned in, not for a kiss, but for simple intimate attention.

"I've got yer back, remember?" he murmured. Butch glared at him from behind his bowl as he continued to sip his potion of medicine and broth, stopping just long enough to speak.

"When we get to town, the fuckin' better be real goddamn amazing."

"Snow's meltin' quick out there," Frank proclaimed as he entered the cabin. The stomping of his boots to shake away trailing snow made Butch cringe, his head aching from remnants of illness and his foul mood.

"The horses?" Butch inquired.

"All three still good. They could last us the ride back into town." Frank's tone was not subtle, much to Burke's annoyance. Two or so days and already the little pipsqueak had cabin fever? If he started complaining outright, Burke was going to slap him in the mouth, adorable or not.

"Could they," the Irishman said dully. He turned to regard Butch, who sat cross-legged in not but his underthings, trousers and suspenders. His bowl was empty.

"Well, Butch, ye look fit to ride tomorrow. What say ye?"

Butch was in no mood for his companion's making light. Next thing he knew, the gang was going to start looking to Burke for leadership.

"First thing tomorrow," he muttered.

Smiling his usual stupid smile, Burke gave Butch a little nudge with his elbow. Butch shoved him away, sending him rolling. The tattooed man only laughed, much to his friend's aggravation. Frank grinned smugly at the coarse treatment anyway.

His subordinate's response was a comfort to Butch, however slight. He hated looking weak, and he most hated looking weak in front of those from which he had garnered both fear and respect. This included any sign of affection between himself and Burke. As far as the gang was concerned, Burke was only an occasional trusted member of the group, at worst an annoyance who proved himself helpful enough that their boss had not killed him. A friend, perhaps, but not a lover. Butch Cavendish did not dally with queer folk, and the only physical satisfaction he felt came from savagery. This was how others knew him, and he was determined to keep it that way.

Burke was not allowed on the mattress that night.

*

The next morning, Butch was first to wake, a sign he was returning to his old self. He seemed fully recovered as he clothed himself and loaded the group's gear, though Burke was doubtful. He only hoped that the fiery old devil did not overwork himself just as his health was improving.

"Eat up," he snapped in his usual voice of grit and gravel as he tossed a pack of dried meat to each man. Frank may not have been voicing his cabin fever now, but Butch definitely was with the withering expression he shot at them. Being stuck on one's back for over a weak could do that to a person, Burke reasoned.

Frank shoveled in his food, eager to obey his leader's command and barely chewing. Burke thought about how surprised he might be if the youth did not vomit during or after their looming journey due to a stomach full of poorly digested dry meat bouncing up and down on horseback. If he did, Burke would point and laugh at him without stopping, leaving Frank behind to color the snow with half-chewed jerky.

After the rushed breakfast, they joined Butch outside in the slowly melting snow and prepared their horses. Butch's torn lip twisted as he watched Burke tie his own horse - loaded with most of the provisions - to Frank's mount but said nothing, mounting his own animal. Unlike his first journey, this time he wore a heavy coat over his original clothes. He scowled when he felt Burke effortlessly climb up behind him on the saddle.

"M'alright," he insisted, adjusting himself where he sat.

"Just t'be on the safe side," an Irish whisper filled his ear.

Butch might have shoved the inky bastard off if the act would not arouse suspicion. Presently Frank did not seem to notice anything awry with the situation, not with Burke's horse holding carrying the essentials and Butch himself having been direly ill only days ago. Butch was no invalid though, not anymore, and he no longer needed anyone's help. So what if Burke was concerned for him for whatever soft-hearted, water-brained reason? Was the supposedly guiltless little weasel actually feeling shame for getting his lover sick? Did Burke feel pity? Stewing in his own thoughts, Butch was getting angry to the point of ignoring discretion and nearly elbowing the gangly mongrel off the horse right then and there.

"Butch?" came Frank's uncertain voice, jogging him from his inner ranting. "What's yer call?"

Cavendish looked over the expanse of white before them, glanced at the sky for a moment, then back to the hills. Burke's arms thankfully did not touch him in the saddle. Finally he bucked his heels into his horse.

"Hyah!" He urged the animal into a gallop, and Frank followed, bringing the third horse with him. Only then did Burke grab onto Butch, hands firmly resting on collar of the coat, nimble fingers wrapped around the curves of his shoulders. Butch could have sworn he felt the warmth of the other man's limbs through the thick material.

 _Could be worse_ , he thought. _Could've put his arms around me._

Halfway back, though the winds did not cut as harshly as they had over a week ago, Butch was beginning to regret the journey. Already he wanted to lay his head down and go back to sleep. He and his band of outlaws should have been so lucky to be arriving in a town near fully evacuated. Yet his heart rate increased at the prospect of any stragglers who might still be sick lingering in the forsaken place, secretly anxious after what he had personally gone through.

If he saw anyone with so much as a stuffy nose, he was shooting them into oblivion.

*

Unfortunately for Burke, Frank did not throw up, though he did look slightly green by the time the three dismounted at an outcrop of boulders a mile or so from the town. Barret and Jésus were the first to walk into view from beyond the rocks, soon followed by the rest of the gang, most of them shivering despite their heavy clothes. One of the lot, a burly ape of a man named Sy Mundy, greeted the trio with open arms.

"Butch, if you ain't a sight for sore eyes..." he said, boisterous and jovial, but his boss cut him off without hesitation.

"Don't lie," Butch snapped. "Ya do a shit job of hidin' yer disappointment that I ain't dead."

Burke heard Skinny giggle at Mundy's failed greeting. Cavendish ascended one of the rock formations and held out a hand. A spyglass was promptly given to him and he took a closer look at the town in the distance.

"Don't look so lively, does it?" he stated.

"Town's got little concern for troublemakers at the moment," Barret replied, joining his side. "What with disease and weather. All the better for us...?"

Butch grunted in agreement, sliding the glass shut with a snap.

"I'm in the mood for a holiday," he announced, turning toward the gang. "How about y'all?"

The gang cheered. One of them elbowed Barret, wrapped parcel in hand.

"Oh, right," Barret took the package and presented it to their boss. It was bound in a familiar bit of twine. "We've been holdin' onto somethin' you didn't get to take with you. Good thing it kept in the snow."

Recognition in his eyes, Butch took the offering, held it under his nose, and inhaled as though the packet was really a finely perfumed lady. He smiled in anticipation.

"Ought to be tough chewin', but it'll go down fine all the same."

In Burke's memory, his friend's reaction to the saved heart was the first time he had seen a genuine smile on Butch's face since before the gang had left the distant town. If the plans he was to carry out this evening were successful, we would see several more.

*

In fact the town did little in response to the appearance of the Cavendish gang, mostly because few were left to witness their arrival. They almost missed the usual welcome.

 _More fun for us_ , Burke thought dismissively.

Tethering their horses in front of a hotel, they entered to find only a bartender inhabiting the establishment. He stared at the crew for a handful of seconds, then shrugged in defeat, likely accepting whatever hell was about to unfold.

"Ease up there, friend," Barret addressed him, heavy in the sarcasm on the word friend. "We'd just like some rooms and hospitality, if you'd be so kind."

Butch, who silently lingered in the back, glancing warily outside, appreciated the initiative from his second-in-command. The less attention paid to the gang's leader, the better. He needed no hassle tonight, not with past week or so he had been enduring.

The bartender did not verbally acquiesce, but he did not refuse their entry either, and the gang took his silence with pleasure, making themselves at home. Butch took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink while others put up their feet on the tables, enjoying their own alcohol and playing cards. Ray sat at the saloon's upright piano, bottle of liquor resting on the top board, and proceeded to play a jaunty melody, which sounded all the quirkier with the instrument being out of tune. Burke, already feeling looser in his first helpings of whiskey, found himself laughing at the discovery of the scarred man's unexpected talent, and he decided this music-making was tragically bereft of his voice.

"What songs do ye know?" he asked Ray, who didn't look up from his progress.

"Likely none'a your shitty ones."

Burke grimaced, swallowing a mouthful of his drink. "Oh, that's a tragedy."

Meanwhile, the begrudging bartender held a captivated audience in Jésus, Frank, and Skinny, explaining the destruction and despair which the typhus outbreak had brought. As the ruffians sat drinking and intently listening to his telling, he had reached a point in his recollections where he felt most haunted, the fate of the town's children.

"After a few days the small coffins started to outnumber the big."

Seconds later, Frank was laughing, which caused his compatriots to laugh, shaking their heads at his amusement.

"Baby coffins! This is the bee's knees," he guffawed, then turned to the others, who ignored his invitation: "hey fellas, come listen to this!"

By the time Burke had finished one song at Ray's side (Kathleen Mavourneen, the only tune both of them knew), Mundy had jerked the Irishman around by the arm, shoving another glass of whiskey into his etched hand. Without question, Burke nearly poured the entire contents down his gullet when he happened to look in the direction of the bar, where Cavendish remained by himself at the far end.

Burke thought it best to step in and enact his plans. Though far out of danger now, his friend's health was still not fully returned, and the ride back to town had taken its toll on him. Even across the room, he could see Butch was already beginning to wilt in his seat. Crossing the saloon, the tattooed outlaw leaned against the bar, his voice low as he spoke to the older man.

"Let's take our drinks upstairs, yeah?"

He half expected Butch to snap at him to be left alone. Instead, Cavendish sluggishly rose from the stool and headed for the stairs. Burke wasted no time in following, guiding the exhausted man down the walkway until they reached a room which looked more prestigious than the rest.

Whilst his friend lightly dozed on the large bed in their self-reserved suite, Burke set to work in the bathroom. He wobbled a few times as he hurried back and forth with water, but otherwise had the tub filled and heated in less than twenty minutes.

Butch jolted as he was awoken, his head reeling from fatigue and alcohol, and in the first two seconds of being conscious he was in unfamiliar territory. The sight of Burke, however, restored his memories immediately.

"Whatta ya want?" he retorted.

"I have a surprise for ye," Burke answered, undaunted. "Should do ye well after bein' out in the cold so long."

Butch doubted that. From the typhus and the weather combined, his bones felt permanently frozen. He groaned as he sat up, the stiffness of his limbs and back making him feel decades older, but allowed himself to be guided by Burke all the same.

"What was wrong with me just sleepin' again?" he complained.

"Come along," Burke encouraged him, hardly dispirited. Butch obeyed, hoping this promised surprise involved fucking the cocksure little pest right through a wall. Led into the bathroom, he dazedly watched the steam curl off of the water which awaited him. Several soaps and oils had been placed on the floor, surrounding the tub, and a nearby table held what looked to be clean towels.

"... oh," he managed to say as he gazed over the presentation. Illustrated hands which had guided him by the shoulders squeezed tenderly.

"I think it's high time we treated ourselves, yeah?" Burke cooed into his ear, gently tugging on the sleeve of the black coat. Parting from him, the Irish outlaw peeled away his own clothes with a mockingly coy smile, removing each layer with the care and presentation of a professional peep show girl. Burke found that revealing the permanent patterns as he stripped seemed to win Butch over. Taking a breath and looking around as though unimpressed, the older man finally undressed as well, though his movements were still lethargic.

Burke was first to enter the tub, guiding his partner in. The moment Butch was seated, he went limp, the tension seeping out of him with a long exhale. Grinning, Burke nudged at him under the water with his foot.

"Better?"

Butch groaned, though not in pain but rather pleasure. Already he felt warmth returning to the icicles that his bones had become. He could have slept there if he did not risk drowning himself.

Green eyes resting on his lover, Burke lifted two jars from the floor, pouring contents both powdered and oil-based into the water. The fragrance was unusual to their senses, all the more so to Butch, who practically lived out in the desert at times. Being clean was going to feel tremendously peculiar.

"Turn 'round and I'll scrub yer back," Burke said, bringing Cavendish out of his reverie. Opening his eyes, he saw a scrubbing brush in his lover's hand, casually stirring the water and bringing the powder and oil concoction to a lather. His limbs heavy, Butch awkwardly turned over, resting against the edge of the tub. He first felt hands, bringing suds onto his back, then the brush. Almost immediately, he was wet clay in Burke's hands. Each and every knot which had tightened his sore body was undone in minutes, and he sagged against the curved interior of the tub, arms dangling over the rim. Burke smiled at the sight in front of him, pleased to have been the one to bring Butch to such a relaxed state. To Burke, he looked like a sleeping cat.

"Unnhhhh..." Butch's groaning was beginning to sound beyond peaceful or relaxed. But if his arousal would be getting any further, he would need to get out of the tub first. Burke decided to move on.

"Almost done, lift up yer pretty little backside, will ye?" He nearly expected Butch to be unable to, but the other outlaw, seemingly lost in bliss, placed his feet on the bottom of the tub and straightened his legs, allowing the bath to continue.

Before the typhus, Burke had never viewed his friend's scars with anything more than vague interest, dismissing them as the same marks any outlaw would garner in his miserable life. Now, every scar seemed to speak of some tragic story from the past. He questioned the origins of each one. Which of them came from wounds sustained in the brothel, he wondered. One in particular, long and jagged, started at the left buttock and ended at the beginning of Butch's outer thigh. In the lamplight, Burke saw pale lines he had not been able to see a year ago in the dark cabin, and he realized that some of Butch's physical scars ran deeper than others. Burke felt a chill run through him which even the heat of the water could not drive away.

His fingertips met the dip of his friend's spine, starting at the small of Butch's back and journeying upward and ending between the shoulder blades. Butch gave another satisfied moan at the gentle pressure and proceeded to bend his legs, sinking beneath the surface. Burke initially thought he should worried until he saw hands lathering the long unkempt hair. Determining his hair was clean enough, the scarred man finally emerged, his sighing audible as he pushed the long wet locks behind him. Burke continued to scrub until he had washed nearly every inch of Cavendish. 'Nearly' being the key word...

"Shall I take care of business down below?" he asked slyly.

Butch reached below the surface, cleaning his groin by himself.

"If you do it, I'd likely end this evening early," the other man replied. He showed what he meant as he slowly stood up, turning to face his partner. His cock, at eye level with Burke, was already coming to life. Smiling, Burke took a finger and lightly pressed down, chuckling when the shaft bounced back up. A pleased thrumming sounded from Butch's throat, as though he might start purring.

Removing himself from the tub, Burke grabbed a towel and helped his lover to dry, leaning in close to him and speaking barely above a whisper.

"Put yer arms around my shoulders?"

Tilting an eyebrow, Butch complied, curious to see where this was headed. Like a gentleman taking his betrothed across the threshold, Burke scooped Butch up into a bridal carry and escorted him to a nearby chaise-lounge, whistling Wagner's matrimonial chorus as he did. Butch laughed at the silliness of it all, and Burke deduced that the liquor and bath had been a fitting palliative for the cannibal's mood.

"I could get used to this special treatment," Butch declared as he was placed on the chaise. He watched Burke slip back into the bath to hurriedly clean himself. "Get the boys to just carry me 'round on a platform like a king..."

"Or a queen," Burke teased, pointedly turning his back towards the man to show off his white hindquarters. Butch's eyes narrowed. That backside needed to be much closer, within biting reach. He pointed at the Irishman.

"You." Turning his hand, he bent his finger, beckoning. "Git over here and be my loyal subject."

"Just a moment..." Burke called back, singing his response playfully. He grabbed a handful of the soap lather and reached between his legs far enough to dip his fingers into the cleave of his rump. Butch's erection was at half-mast.

Hastily drying himself, Burke slipped on the wet floor as he rushed across the room. He tossed his towel aside, grabbed his waistcoat, and settled himself into Butch's lap, leaning forward for a kiss as his lover's arms closed around him, as did teeth. One bite was harder than the others, and Burke cried out. The marks would likely be visible tomorrow.

Parting themselves, Burke was able to search his vest until he found their coin. Cavendish took the coin and flipped it.

"Here it comes," he announced.

"Tails," Burke proclaimed.

The coin landed in his favor and he rose to his feet. Butch looked up at him with reserved anticipation, spreading his legs and leaning against the back rest of the chaise. His erect cock seemed to bob up and down with every breath.

Burke smiled, an idea forming in his mind. "I wanna do somethin' different."

"You won the toss," Butch replied with a shrug, too affected by the alcohol and soothing bath to be his usual irritable self. He shifted into a comfortable position on the chaise-longue, feeling kisses trail down his neck and onto his chest. Burke kissed each nipple before swiping his tongue over them, and Butch shivered, moaning. He shut his eyes and savored the feeling of the buds hardening in the chill brought on by his Irish lover's saliva, then moaned a second time when Burke's thumbs rubbed over them.

Had he not felt so relaxed, Butch might have become impatient, demanding them to fuck right on the spot, but thus far this experience was proving to be more satisfying than he would have expected. Perhaps the whiskey was doing the talking, but Butch reasoned that their previous interactions had been good, thus tonight would be no different. Besides, Burke seemed to have gotten a grasp on boundaries.

Then he felt something warm and wet against his genitalia that was indisputably Burke's mouth, and he jolted backwards in his seat. Instantly he was dragged back to the dark room, but the sights and sounds of the past left his mind nearly as soon as they had manifested themselves. He was no longer in the brothel, let alone the dark room or the cellar, and he was back in the hotel room with a startled Burke kneeling beside him.

An inked hand reached up and caressed his disoriented lover's cheek, but Butch was no longer in the mood for Burke's games. The thought of the younger man trying a second time forced images into Cavendish's brain of what he had been forced to do all those years ago. The memory alone inspired him to push Burke away.

"What'r you doin'?" he growled, sitting forward and denying the other man access. He was done with this. Burke had pushed his luck.

"As ye said, I won the toss," Burke said, his voice gentle and quiet as he attempted reason, "and I have an idea of what we can do. I think it'll help ye. I think ye might like it."

Butch shook his head. This was not a matter of weakness, he tried telling himself; he was not weak. Butch had been able to surpass certain things throughout his adulthood. Penetration had been the first, an act he was more than eager to deal against others. Though it had shamed him to, he had also come to enjoy being penetrated, though he comforted himself in his early adult years with the notion that he still had the control, partly because he was the one who decided whether or not he would be entered, partly because he always killed the men after they had fucked him. But this... he couldn't. If he were to ever orally please a man, the act would end with him either gagging or clenching his jaws and carrying on with his cannibalistic inclinations.

He did not want to go back to that goddamned room.

Burke looked up at his lover sadly. Butch was hard, not in the way of his cock, which had flagged, but in his muscle. The body beneath him felt hard as rock, as though he were about to make love to a construct of a man instead of something real. Arching his neck, Burke kissed his solemn lover's brow. Butch seemed to be ignoring him, but he would not give up. He moved until he could make eye contact with the older man.

"Ye got past so many stony hills ever since ye broke free," he said. "What's one more?"

Butch seemed at a loss for words, his eyes expressing the countless thoughts rushing through his mind despite his silence. Hoping to quiet his troubled brain, Burke moved to comfort him, heedful of overwhelming him. He nudged his forehead against a scruffy chin.

"I won't steer ye wrong," he softly uttered. "Never."

Butch sighed, frustrated and desperate to shove the past back into its cage where it belonged. Burke's reasoning, unexpectedly, had been rather compelling, as much as Cavendish was annoyed to admit it. He did not have to give, only receive. And as obnoxious and insufferable as Burke could be at times... Butch trusted him. He glanced back at their empty glasses of whiskey, considering if he should go into this scenario completely drunk, if he could better endure this way. A bad idea, he decided. He was the one in control. He was the one getting pleasured, and he wanted to be able to remember this in the morning to come.

Once he was sure he was not about to be thrown across the room or bludgeoned, Burke kissed Butch, first licking the split lip, then inserting his tongue into his lover's mouth. The tip traced a long groove on the roof of Butch's mouth which led to the place currently taken up by the silver tooth. Butch moaned into him and blindly grabbed for one of the younger outlaw's hands, leading it back to his cock. Encouraged, Burke teased at the foreskin with his fingertip before giving the shaft a quick tug, feeling the organ become hard once more. When they parted, Butch hesitated, then lay back, spreading his legs again.

 _Burke had better make good on his word_ , he thought.

Licking his lips as though to preserve the taste of his friend, Burke then repeated his previous treatment of Butch's nipples, then trailed kisses down the man's front. His lips brought a tingle to the other outlaw's skin as he traveled along the gentle indentation of Cavendish's lean belly. He loved the tremble against his lips, specifically when his kisses stopped at the space below the navel where the hair began to thicken.

Looking upward, he was saddened by the sight before him. Butch seemed determined now to carry through this encounter, but his body betrayed his trepidation, back stiffly arched and fists clenched. Before he continued any further, Burke reached up and took one of Butch's hands in his own.

Butch opened his eyes and looked down. Keeping his eyes shut in an attempt to concentrate only brought images vivid and terrible to his mind, the smug faces of his tormentors leering down at him. He focused instead on Burke, whose own eyes were closed as he nuzzled between the other's legs. Watching the Irishman pay attention to his groin gave him no time to linger on old memories. He observed with heavy breaths as Burke worshipped him, and he nearly laughed at the thought of being treated like a king after all. When the tattooed outlaw finally took the head of the shaft into his mouth, he looked pretty damn silly, but Butch was aroused all the same.

 _Maybe this will work_. Butch squeezed the hand in his, signaling Burke to continue.

The ink-inscribed mouth closed fully over the throbbing member and sucked. Moaning sharply, Butch placed Burke's white hands against his hips. Burke's thumbs stroked at abrupt lines where hip bones lay just beneath the surface. Butch stubbornly continued watching his lover stimulate him, the sight alone enough to send a satisfying shudder through his naked frame. God damn, Burke was incredible at this. He might as well have taken up a career in a sideshow as a sword-swallower. Butch began to wonder where the inky bastard had learned how to do this so damn well until another shudder, much more powerful than the last, drove all rational thought out of him.

Butch's entire body tightened, though not out of fear, quite the opposite. Tilting his head backward as he curved his spine, he instinctively thrust into Burke's mouth. The laugh which reverberated around his cock was pure ecstasy. Unable to see Burke, he imagined how the Irishman must have looked based upon the sensations to which he was being subjected and instinctively thrust his hips into the other's throat.

One hand frantically grasped for something to hold onto and found his lover's hair. Burke winced as the grip tightened and twisted, yanking him deeper around the hard cock. Perhaps he was holding on a little too strongly, but Butch was enjoying this too damn much to care what else he did in the throes of passion. He closed his legs around Burke, who wriggled in place as he momentarily felt smothered against his friend's groin. When he managed to tilt his head and expose his nostrils, he considered his predicament as he regained his breath. This needed to end soon, not only for Butch's sake, but for Burke to avoid getting his (likely balder) head popped off like the meal of a praying mantis. One of his hands interlocked with Butch's once more, while the other insinuated itself between the halves of Butch's arse, diddling the puckered ring within.

Already vocal, Butch climaxed loudly. His vision blackened and he saw stars. His seed splashed hot into Burke's mouth and onto the floor as the Irishman backed away. Wiping himself with the back of his hand, he smiled proudly at his achievement, and as though rewarding his lover, kissed the base of the spent organ. It twitched, an echo of the powerful release, but did nothing else.

Butch felt as though his brain had been shattered and was putting itself back together. His chest rose and fell as he slowly regained his breath, body boneless and shining with sweat. He looked and felt as though he had been brought back from death.

A blue-inked hand flattened over the hammering in his chest, and he felt playful kisses on his throat as he was affectionately nuzzled. When he opened his eyes, familiar teeth marks entered his line of vision, and he acted on instinct, lifting his head and opening his jaws.

"OWWW, oh shite!" Burke yelled as he was bitten. That bruise would definitely show in the morning. He put his fingers to the wound to check for blood, but found none.

Butch snickered, pleased with himself. "Ain't no better way to end it."

Smirking, Burke stood up, holding out an arm. "Time for bed?"

The other man groaned. "M'fine here."

"I can warm ye better in the bed," Burke offered.

Opening one eye, he scrutinized the furniture in question, considered, then sat up, taking his friend's hand. "No lullabies this time."

He moved lethargically, now completely drained, and all but collapsed onto the bed. Burke was slightly surprised that by the time he took his own place on the mattress his companion had not already fallen asleep. Would it be harder to wake him this time, he wondered.

"I hope my singing didn't brown ye too much," the Irishman said apologetically as he sank under the covers.

Cavendish shrugged as he listlessly joined him under the bedclothes. "It brought me back outta the past a few times." Burke was did not know if he had ever seen his friend in such an agreeable state. Limply laying next to his tattooed bedfellow, eyes shut and breathing slowly, Butch was quite the pussy cat. But cats had claws, and this peaceful mood could shift at any time, so Burke enjoyed the moment while it lasted.

When he thought Butch had fallen asleep, Burke carefully lifted himself to extinguish the lamp. This proved tricky, as the table was on Butch's side of the bed. Taking care as he leaned over the motionless figure, he blew out the flame. A set of teeth bit his nipple and he yelped in surprise and pain.

"Curse'a Jaysus!"

Butch chuckled.


	12. Raw Eggs and Red Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hangovers, breakfast, and the subject of names.

Butch woke up with a headache, not that he was surprised.

Opening his eyes, he turned his head to regard his bedfellow. Burke lay in a position which looked rather uncomfortable, his head propped against two pillows at an awkward angle. A line of spittle was trailing out of his open mouth. Hopefully his headache would be worse thanks to the slant of his neck.

 _What an idiot_ , Butch thought. The notion was not out of malice, not presently anyway. He could remember the events of the previous night, especially the fact that he had enjoyed what Burke had treated him to. Being against the act for so many years, the fact that he finally experienced it felt strange... but he had not regretted it. The act itself had been absurdly easy. All he had to do was sit there while Burke did all the work. Upon further consideration, he had been foolish not to try it sooner. Receiving such a bequest had been phenomenal; one day he would have to try it while sober. Giving, however, was still a different matter entirely. Hopefully he would not have to knock that boundary into Burke's thick skull too often.

He looked a second time at Burke, still motionless as a stone and dead to the world. Butch had lost count of all the times he wished he knew what the hell went on in that paddy head.

The sun had recently come up over the horizon, not yet reaching the window. Some breakfast would do, Butch decided. His head throbbed again as he stood up, hung-over, though thankfully not blindingly so. Throwing on his trousers and shirt, he made his way downstairs, not bothering to slip his suspenders over his shoulders, nor button the crotch of his pants.

The saloon was a mess, though not as big a mess as he expected. Most of the gang had taken up rooms of their own to sleep off the consequences of their gluttonous drinking. One of the gang remained, Alvirez, who slept on one of the card tables. Butch might have tipped the improvised bed over if the resulting crash would not worsen his headache.

The bartender, asleep at the bar and drooling on the countertop, must have remained at his post for the entire night, clearly wary of the town's latest villagers. Taking a nearby shot glass, he slung it down the bar, watching it slide down the counter and bounce off the old man's face. The barkeep jerked awake with a loud snort.

Butch let the man shiver with apprehension over what might unfold for a few seconds before finally speaking.

"Breakfast?"

The bartender blinked, realizing he was not about to be blown away, and scurried off to the kitchen.

"Two shots of prairie oysters while yer at it!" Butch called after him.

As he waited, he turned at the sound of someone shuffling down the stairs. Frank was naked save for a transparent ladies' dressing gown, ruffles accentuating the trim. He rubbed at one of his eyes as ungracefully descended to the ground floor.

"Where'r the tomatuhs?" he muttered, taking a seat at the bar and promptly laying his head down. He was out within seconds. Butch shook his head.

"Food's on its way," the barkeep announced, returning to the bar with fresh eggs. He cracked them into two glasses and added water. "By the way, if you don't mind my asking..."

 _I do_ , Butch thought.

"... exactly how long were you planning to stay?"

Butch slid his tongue over a silver tooth, snatching one of the glasses fast enough to make the bartender flinch.

"Long enough."

Swallowing the raw egg concoction in one gulp, he slammed the glass onto the bar. Frank jolted awake with a yelp and Alvirez fell off of the table. Smiling despite his headache, he waited for the completion of his meal, took the remaining glass and frying pan, and returned upstairs. Before closing the door to the suite behind him, he heard Frank ask again for tomatoes.

Burke had been known to find time to nap even with shots firing around him, and an explosion would sound like a lullaby to his ears, but Butch did not need to make noise to wake him. He simply held the frying pan above him, letting the scent waft. He resisted the urge to pour the contents onto the inky face beneath, though it would definitely wake him faster.

The smell of grease and eggs (both cooked and raw) entered Burke's nostrils and he reacted within seconds. Though the light filling the room did not help his headache, he opened his eyes nonetheless, beaming at the prospect of...

"Streaky bacon."

He winced as he sat up, and a glass full of egg yolk was unceremoniously shoved into his hands. Staring at the offering as though trying to make sense of what to do with it, he finally shrugged and swallowed the remedy. He grimaced at the taste, then removed himself from the bedcovers, eager for the greasy meal within the pan.

"Were we in Ireland, I'd just be put up to my neck in river sand. Don't suppose there's a river nearby...?"

"Afraid not," Butch replied, placing the frying pan between them as they sat facing one another on the bed. "It's either this or rabbit shit tea."

Burke nearly choked on a strip of bacon. "Ara cod, is that a true thing??"

He continued to speak in between mouthfuls, grease occasionally dribbling down his tattooed chin.

"When I was a lad, ye couldn' get me to come inside, 'less ye mention food," reminisced. "Me ma, she'd not even call my name, just open the window and let the smell invite me in."

Butch only reacted by dismissively shaking his head, continuing to eat until a thought occurred to him.

"What _is_ yer name anyway?" he asked. Burke paused, taking the time to chew his mouthful properly, obviously stalling for time before he faced the unavoidable.

"My name... has been a mystery to all in this ugly Yank land. Except you," he declared, then looked up from the pan to lock green eyes with blue. "It's Ruadhri. Dense idiots can never get it right when they see it spelled, so they changed it to something their clotty brains could manage."

"What then?" Butch asked, his own mouth full as he asked. Burke might have mentioned he thought Cavendish and his scarred lip looked endearing when he chewed, but he would get slapped for it, either for delaying his answer or for being too sentimental. He took a breath and finally spoke.

"Rory."

Fragments of food sprayed as Butch laughed. Even funnier to him was the blush which spread so vividly on his friend's white face. Though annoyed, Burke remembered the sound of Butch laughing was a rare thing, and it was a sound he loved.

"How's that spelt?" the older outlaw asked after he had swallowed the mouthful. "Yer first name, how's it spelt?"

Burke hesitated, but he climbed off of the bed to rummage through a bedside table. When he found stationary and a bit of charcoal, he returned to his seat, jotting down the name in his crude hand. Picking up the page, Butch frowned, turned it sideways, then very closely inspected the name, putting the paper inches away from his nose.

"Maybe Rory was a good idea after all." He laughed again, even heartier.

"Not _that_ funny," Burke muttered. Clearly in high spirits, Butch scooped up some of the grease off the pan with his finger and eased it between the Irishman's parted lips. Burke obediently sucked, flicking his sly tongue over the tip.

"Don't be sore," the older man gently chided, removing his finger. "We can't all be lucky not to be born with humiliating names."

Burke cocked an eyebrow. "'Butch' ain't such a humiliating name."

"No, it ain't." The other's voice was strangely quiet. Burke continued eating, considered the answer for a second or two, then finished his share of breakfast.

"That's not really yer name is it?" he asked casually.

"It is," Butch replied tersely, "it's just the short version."

Tilting his head, Burke looked at his partner with anticipation. Butch pursed his lips.

"Well g'wan, what is it?"

Butch opened his mouth, and rather than speak, he shoved the last of the eggs into his mouth, muttering something indecipherable.

"What?"

"Bartholomew!" he snapped, then jabbed a barbecue fork in Burke's direction. "An' if you tell anyone, I'll knock out yer teeth and shove'em up yer pecker hole."

Initially Burke was surprised by his friend's birth name, but his thoughts soon turned toward the ensuing threat. His tattoo spread as he smiled, taking some grease onto his own finger to offer to his lover.

"That's the Butch Cavendish I know," he said.

Butch took the finger into his mouth, suckled, then bit. Yanking his hand away, Burke laughed despite the new teeth marks.

"Surely feeling better?"

"Mmn," Butch grunted an affirmative. He spied the coin resting on the bedside table and picked it up. Burke licked his lips as he also looked at the coin, the way it dully reflected the light of the sun.

"Now where were we?"

"Tails."

It landed in Butch's favor. Their subsequent kiss tasted of eggs and bacon. As his scarred lover settled onto his back against the mattress, Burke leaned back to the foot of the bed where their hats were hanging on the posts. Grabbing Butch's black, wide-brimmed article, he put it on his own head, it feeling odd compared to his bowler. He returned to Butch, straddling his powerful legs, and placed his fingers in the pan, greasing them. Cavendish gave a satisfied sigh as the slick hand lubricated his cock, tugging and twisting it to life.

"Hopefully this won't tempt me into gettin' a taste for ye like ye likely done for me," Burke said, taking his hand from the stiff organ and touching his lips. When he leaned forward, their kiss was a wet one, Butch's tongue licking away the grease before nibbling on Burke's lips.

 _Ruadhri's_ lips, he reminded himself. He grinned as he watched the other outlaw lubricate himself. The mischievous aspect of him wanted to get a rise out of Burke by calling him Rory during their interaction, but he knew Burke would do something to retaliate, likely in front of others. Also... Rory truly was a silly as hell name.

Butch groaned sharply as his cock easily slid into Burke, who giggled at the sensation within himself. The tattooed little rascal was pliant, and Butch wondered how many years the younger outlaw had been devoting to the company of men to be so experienced. Not that the notion of Burke getting around was so scandalous, the insatiable brat.

Thumbs flicked over Cavendish's nipples and hardened them within seconds. Burke began slowly, but soon picked up the pace to ride him faster. He was practically bouncing on the rock-hard erection. The speed and angle must have been enough for Burke, as he touched Butch more than himself. Only when he was close to his climax did the Irishman finally give himself a few swift tugs, spurting his seed onto Butch's stomach. He only stopped bouncing when he felt Butch come inside him, slumping forward during the aftermath and catching his breath along with his partner.

Their breathing reached a steady unanimous rhythm and Burke looked down at the peaceful sight beneath him. That scarred face had to have intimidated and horrified countless victims of his cruelty, but Burke might as well have been looking at an angel.

Burke had been enticed to ride Butch like a wild stallion, his lover's black hat in his hand as he bounced, but it stayed on his head for the entire act. He reached back toward the bedpost once more, taking his bowler and handing it to Butch, who reflexively took it. Butch looked at the hat for a few seconds, then, deciding to play along, placed it over his head. He tipped the brim forward over his eyes as though about to go back to sleep. Smiling, Burke lay down on top of him, their chests and stomachs pressed against one another. Butch tensed a little under the man's weight, but only for a moment. He was not certain if he could ever fully overcome the crawling feeling under his skin of someone resting on top of him, but with Burke, he felt a little less... defenseless.

Not nearly as defenseless as he had felt in the cabin, he considered. At least his nightmares were gone. After the strange dream with the fireflies, he had returned to the usual routine of forgetting whatever happened in his head during sleep. Still, the imagery his mind had concocted on those last few days of illness somehow struck him as something right, something good. He smirked as a thought occurred to him, and he spoke his thoughts as he traced a pattern on Burke's arm with his index finger.

"Yer my firefly in the dark. I don't always see you. But I'll always snatch you up every time I do."

He felt Burke's smile against his skin. Lifting his head, the Irish outlaw rested his chin on a steadily rising and falling chest. He carefully reached forward, hoping he would not be bitten if he were careful enough - if he did not pull any hair - and found the rattlesnake's tail tied amidst the locks. Teeth did not close on his hand, so he cautiously twirled the rattle, doing no more and no less. The chest beneath him lifted, paused, then lowered as Butch exhaled, and Burke was not certain if his lover was enjoying the treatment or not.

The finger tracing at the tattoos on the arm moved to those on Burke's face, and there in the bed they lay for the rest of the morning, gentle touches soothing both into a state of uninterrupted silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now you all know where the title comes from, ohhhh snap, son.


	13. A Matter of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made for departure. Burke pushes his luck, and Butch's patience can only stretch so far.

As Butch stirred in response to the rising sun's light reaching his face, he became aware of arms loosely draped over him. In the split second of waking, instincts caused him to jump, prepared to fight back or escape. But the fear was gone as quickly as it arrived. The arms around him were not those of a customer. Yawning, he shrugged out of Burke's hold. Burke hardly responded, not even to snore.

The second day in the "plague town," as the gang had begun to call it passed peacefully to the point of boredom. With a sheriff amongst the many dead from typhus and a mayor abandoning his own town to avoid the outbreak, the place was safe... excruciatingly insipidly safe. Butch was starting to miss the risk of being caught or executed. He partly hoped that an angry mob of remaining townsfolk would form and try to kill them.

After ascertaining supplies and essentials, the gang had convened to discuss their next plan of action. Heading West would have been the easiest terrain for them, but also for anyone planning on following them from town. East would be the most difficult to travel, but it would ward off said townspeople. South was out of the question, as it was where the main road of town led, the same direction both the disease came from and retreated to. North led to the cabin, but Butch hardly wanted one of his hideaways to be discovered by any pursuing vigilantes. East it was.

When dinnertime arrived, the specially preserved package was finally opened and cooked. As expected the meat had gone tough, no longer fresh, but he enjoyed it all the same. He ate it in a corner of the saloon, left alone by his men, even Burke, who let him savor the meal. The evening had been as before, with merry-making and drinking, with Butch ignoring the commotion and drinking by himself. This time, he left the saloon and retired to his room on his own. Burke followed nearly an hour later and considered inciting another roll in the sheets, but found himself simply staring at the peaceful, quiescent sight. He put his arms around his sleepy lover and fell asleep enjoying the mere fact that their worries of Butch's sickness was far behind him.

*

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Butch sat on the edge of the bed, watching the square of light creeping downward off of him as the sun climbed the heavens. He considered retrieving breakfast again, but his belly still felt full from the heart the previous night. Turning to look upon his Irish friend, he made a nearly inaudible chuckle at the way Burke's tattoos were warped by his chin sinking into his neck, his head at another awkward angle.

They had ended the previous night uneventfully. Butch was determined to rectify that.

Burke was roused from his sleep by the feeling of a mouth against his neck, though he would have refused to fully wake had he not felt teeth sink into his throat. His skin was not broken, but the previous bite from two nights before would definitely not be the only mark visible on this neck.

"Good morning," he greeted the other man. Butch grinned, following a curve of the tattoo on Burke's neck with a fingernail. Burke shivered at the touch and returned his own favor placing his thumb into the dip of Butch's neck where the throat met the collarbone, stroking gently. When he spoke, his voice had taken on that wonderfully familiar husky quality.

"You and me..." he said, nipping random places on the surface of his lover's chest between every few words. "We got unfinished business... needs attending to... wouldn'tcha say?"

The last bite was around a pale nipple, and he felt Burke wince under the teeth. Butch held on for a few seconds, his tongue flicking against the hardening bud. Unlatching his jaws, he glanced at the bedside table and retrieved the coin. He locked eyes with Burke and flipped.

"Heads," the Irishman said. The coin bounced on his chest and finally landed heads up. Burke grinned wickedly.

_Finally._

He caressed his lover's neck, rubbing at the stubbly skin with the back of his finger as Butch shut his eyes, savoring the feeling.

"What to do, what to do..." he mused aloud, considering what their moment of fun might entail. He thought of how he had enjoyed bringing Butch to such a devastating climax a few nights ago, but wanted his own satisfaction as well. "I have it."

"Mmn." Butch made the noise to voice his curiosity, and was rewarded with a hand guiding his own to Burke's sex. The two men kissed as Butch tugged and twisted his lover's member to life, and once he was fully erect, Burke eased his fingers around the back of the older outlaw's neck... and began to guide his head downward.

Butch stiffened and pulled away, knocking the tattooed arm off of him.

"No," he growled. Hands reached for him again, perhaps as a gesture of comfort, based on Burke's apologetic expression, but he backed completely off of the bed, stumbling to his feet on the floorboards.

"No," he repeated.

"Butch..." the other began, uncertain of how to continue. The mood, once so arousing and inviting, shifted in less than a second, and the room suddenly felt cold, reminding him of the weather outside. Cavendish stood still as a statue, refusing to face him.

"I should have just asked," Burke said quietly then gave a soft, joyless laugh. "Ye loved receiving, I thought perhaps ye might also love giving. After all, we've come so far..."

Butch shook his head, hardly interested in any explanations.

"Don'tcha wanna give it a try?" The Irishman asked. "We could get ye some more whiskey, let it settle ye, maybe you'll come 'round to..."

"No, I said!" the other snapped. He refused to listen to reason on the matter. Letting Burke please him orally had been one thing, but the concept of doing so for another filled his mind with memories he would have rather forgotten. The smell of all manner of unwashed men, the sound of their revolting groans, the taste - God almighty, the _taste_. He would be sick if he ever tried to do it again, and if not, instincts would drive him to close his jaws and annihilate the offending organ as he had when he first broke free as a boy.

"I ain't doin' it," he muttered, fists clenched. "It brings back too much."

He did not care what argument Burke supplied. The subject was not up for discussion. He would not assent, and no gentility or guidance would ever convince him otherwise.

Burke gazed at the naked scarred back before him and sighed ruefully. He crossed the short distance to where his partner stood and, with the caution of a deer drinking at a clearing, placed a hand on Butch's shoulder, then his cheek when he was not greeted with hostility. Butch ignored him, unmoving and unspeaking, as though no one else were in the room with him. His eyes stared into nothing, his thoughts far and away, nowhere near the present.

"Butch, I'm sorry," the younger outlaw said, fingers once again caressing a shaggy jaw and neck long due for a shave. "I didn't mean anythin' untoward." When Butch finally turned his attention toward him, Burke reached in for the gentlest of kisses, his lips touching the corner of a jagged mouth. The kiss was not returned. When he pulled away, he watched as Butch turned a critical eye toward him.

"You never apologize," Butch stated. "Why should I believe you now?"

He was rewarded with a beatific smile. "Because I have a real reason to make a apology."

"To fuck me?" the older outlaw countered.

The ink-etched smile only grew wider, mischievous but somehow still amiable. Damn that Burke, he really could charm his way out of any situation.

"We'll do somethin' else," Burke offered. "I demanded enough from ye already." His gentle touches trailed down the scruffy neck, his thumb resting just under the Adam's apple.

Butch huffed, and he considered denying any sort of physical intimacy this morning, but he wanted it far too badly. He ached for it. Burke's audacity from just a minute ago tempted the scarred outlaw to break the rules of the coin and take charge. After all, it was a stupid coin, and he was the boss here... but damn him, he desired the exact opposite. He despised the way it made him feel, but he wanted it nevertheless.

Burke, curse his rotten soul, could easily detect the temptation in his friend's expression, and kissed him again, this time on the scraggly tuft of beard at his chin.

"Let me help ye feel incredible, darlin'?" he whispered.

Sighing, Butch looked into Burke's eyes, his features softening. "Alright... Rory."

Burke's lips thinned and only then did Butch return to the easygoing, hungry mood he had been jarred from earlier. He smiled and shoved the Irish outlaw to the bed, watching him bounce a little from the impact before pouncing onto his illustrated frame. Crooked teeth sank into delicious white shoulders, and Burke squealed out a shrill giggle, the very sound startling his lover as they rolled about in the mattress. Their kisses became savage within seconds, skin bitten and raked by teeth and nails as they made mad love to one another.

"On yer back, luv," Burke cooed into a naked chest, and Butch did so, curious to see where this circumstance was headed. Knuckles drifted softly against his inner thighs signaling him to spread his legs.

"That's it," the Irishman said in encouragement, backing off of the bed. "I'm gonna slick you up, handsome."

Butch nearly presumed the endearment to be condescending, but it did not sound as such. In fact, every one of Burke's sweet nothings sounded indisputable. His curiosity had waned now that the possibility of being pleased orally was contradicted by the inclusion of oil. Even so, after the rude proposal just minutes before, he was no so enthused about getting sucked whatsoever, despite the successful night from their first evening in the hotel.

His stride casual and hands slick with lamp oil, Burke returned to the bed and climbed onto the mattress, settling between the spread legs. Using his fingertips to caress a hardening shaft, he grinned at the noises his lover made in response to the treatment and proceeded to the delicate sac beneath. Butch's breath became heavy as he continued to moan, nuzzling the folds of blankets around him, and he moaned louder when the fingers went ever lower, circling the sensitive pucker of skin. Finally they eased their way inside him, first one, then two. His chest rose and fell at an uneven pace and his vision blackened for less than a second when the fingers pressed into his sweet spot.

"Mmm..." he groaned. "Ooh..."

Burke kissed Butch's stomach, keeping his mouth pressed against the skin so that he could enjoy the tremors of his friend's pleasure. He licked the dip of the man's navel and gave a quiet laugh at the shiver he received.

"Ye ready?" he inquired.

"Do it!" Butch demanded impatiently. "Yeah, I'm ready, just fuckin' do it!"

"Alright, alright." Pulling his fingers free, Burke slathered his cock and stroked himself hard before entering. Butch thought he could feel the other man's endowment throbbing inside him, and it caused an ache that left him squirming. Burke playfully wiggled his hips whilst inside, eliciting a strained laugh from his panting lover. Reaching upward and wrapping his arms around the Irishman's neck, Butch encircled Burke's waist with his legs. Were he any closer, he would be a part of Burke.

"Do it," he repeated, breath heavy.

His grip around Burke was vice-like as his was thrust into at a quick, solid pace. So caught up in the satisfaction was he that he squeezed as hard as he could, hoping the grip would help him to be penetrated even deeper. Fingers hooked into a wiry white back, and Burke responded by thrusting harder. Both men grunted and groaned with the abandon of wild animals as they rutted. As he climaxed, Butch felt a tongue against the split of his lip. At first biting into the folds of blanket again, he remembered himself and bit into the fresh bruise on his lover's neck, smiling as he did. Burke cried out both in pain and ecstasy, and the sound was music to his lover's ears. The tattooed man came less than two minutes later, his seed shooting hot inside Butch and warming him in a way the bedclothes could not.

Their breaths loud and weary, they fully collapsed onto the mattress, Burke rolling onto his side and kissing a shoulder, the arm attached to it, and whatever else of Butch that was within reach.

" _Now_ is it a good morning?" Burke asked.

Butch glanced his way, expression blank.

"I gotta piss."

Burke laughed, then paused. "Me too." Butch joined him in laughing.

*

While Butch descended the steps to the saloon, Burke took his approximation of the short way, being that he launched himself off of the walkway and landed on his feet one floor down. He sauntered over as though nothing unusual had happened and ordered breakfast, smiling politely at the rest of the gang as they stared. Someone awkwardly cleared his throat amidst the group, causing Butch to turn in the man's direction: Barret.

"The bunch'a us were wonderin'," he said. "How much longer we were gonna be stayin' in town. Not that we ain't enjoyin' this little vacation..."

The rest of the gang made confirmatory noises.

Butch glanced behind himself at the bartender, who nearly lost grip on a glass he was drying.

"Git," he ordered, sending the barkeep scurrying into the back. He heard the sound of scrubbing and hoped the old bastard was hard of hearing. The gang did not need locals catching wind of their exact time of departure and interrupting with certain unpleasant farewells.

Crossing his arms and leaning against the counter, Butch considered the subject of leaving. Sooner was safer, and normally a town this quiet was unsettling, as though it were too quiet, but he had not yet felt threatened by the peace of the town. Just bored. Also despite the brief disagreement he had with Burke when they first woke, he was in a particularly good mood thanks to their little interlude minutes later. He was feeling far more forgiving and unperturbed.

"First thing tomorrow," he finally stated, his voice low so that only his men heard him. "One more evenin', long as nothin' or nobody rears their heads on us."

He glanced back to the doorway where the unseen barkeep still made himself busy and scoffed. Any faster at scrubbing and the old man might just work himself into a heart attack.

"Where's the breakfast in this shithole?" Butch shouted. Something clattered to the floor, causing the rest of the gang to laugh.

Breakfast commenced for those who had not already eaten, cigarettes were lit, and drinks were imbibed. The gang was in the middle of discussing whether or not any supplies needed to restocked before the upcoming morning when Ray noticed something on their Irish friend.

"What's that mark on your neck, Burke?" he asked, drawing everyone's attention. Burke casually inspected himself in a nearby mirror and raised his eyebrows as though seeing the bruise for the first time.

"Oh, some wild animal," he replied. "From the looks of it, I think it must've liked the taste a'me."

He caught a glimpse of Butch, whose nostrils were flaring as he narrowed his eyes. Thankfully Burke seemed to be the only one who noticed.

Butch ate by himself in a corner once more, what little of his serving he actually touched. Burke could tell he was miffed by the remark about the bruises, but reasoned such cheek was justified after that little "Rory" remark in bed.

 _Let him be cross_ , he thought, then turned his attention back to his eggs and sausage, thinking no further of the barb.

*

That night, Butch waited until long after Burke had turned in before he returned to the suite himself. As planned, Burke was asleep and likely not to wake until morning. Had the order of whomever retired been reversed, Butch would have easily been roused from sleep by his partner's arrival, and Burke knew this. The silence and lack of attention was exactly what Butch wanted.

Undressing and sinking under the covers, Butch lay staring at the wall, listening to the even breaths of the man behind him. Burke's obnoxious teasing had always been present from day one, but his impudence was becoming even bolder within the past few days in the town, and the behavior was gnawing at Butch's nerves even more so than usual. Regardless of how good the sex was, by all rights he should teach Burke a lesson for being so daring.

Had he gone soft?

He licked his lips, tongue lingering on the scar as he mulled over his stay in the town and Burke's behavior. The remark about the bites repeated itself over and over in his mind. Butch had never exactly discussed secrecy of their relationship outright, but he had surmised the Irishman was smart enough to figure out on his own that they had to be discreet. Smart enough, but not humble enough, not nearly.

The risk of their relationship being discovered was getting far too high for his liking, and already they had been skirting the line enough as it was. Frank had seen the way they interacted in the cabin, not to mention the fact that Burke seemed to hold such control, and though he was occasionally an idiot, Frank also had moments of clarity. Butch knew that if one of the gang got wise to what was going on, the rest would soon follow, and if word spread that Butch Cavendish was some sister-boy queer, he would be ruined.

And how damned loud must he have been the first night they took the suite? He rubbed a hand over his face in frustration. That night when he was pleasured by Burke's skillful tongue, he had carried on like a cat in heat. He must have sounded like...

Like a whore.

It took Butch a long time to fall asleep that night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh...


	14. Parting Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang leaves town and goodbyes are said.

Burke drifted into consciousness the next morning, stretching his arms and stopping himself just before he could accidentally bump into his motionless friend. Smiling, he turned over so that he could properly regard the creature in front of him. The only movement or sound in Butch's resting form was from his breathing.

Assuming him to be awake (he always was), Burke lifted a hand and touched the other's shoulder. He was duly surprised when a jolt passed through Butch's body, the scare of a sudden waking. Butch began to rise and, remembering where he was, returned to his side, back facing his bedfellow. Burke rested his head in his hand, elbow propped against the mattress. He could not quite see Butch's expression, but he could see him staring ahead at the wall.

"Today's the day," he declared softly. "Time to do a legger and find other pastures."

Butch did not reply.

"Are we to still head East?" Burke asked, keen for some sort of response.

" _We_ are," Butch finally replied. "Me and the gang. Not you."

Burke was about to reply but stopped himself, taken aback by the answer. He was not sure what to say or think. His first thought was that he was either being left behind or killed. He better not.

"Meaning...?"

"Meanin' we've had plenty time with each other for now."

Burke might have laughed at the sudden and baffling nature of the announcement if he thought it wouldn't worsen the tense mood which now lay over the room like a fog.

"I wouldn't have thought so," he contended, hoping his tone sounded innocent and unassuming enough. "Most of the time we've shared, you were asleep. I don't have to leave, don't ye worry..."

"No, I want you to leave."

Again, Burke hardly knew what to say. He had a feeling his usual charm would do nothing to sway Butch, and he was not certain he wanted to try. Rather than ride on to new dreadful adventures and wonderful misdeeds, Butch wanted to cut their time together short. And here Burke thought they had been doing so well.

"What's botherin' ye?" he urged. "Can't ye tell me?"

Butch remained silent. Something had happened, at least in that cannibal head of his, that had shifted their connection dramatically from the previous morning. Burke wracked his brain to try to remember what said event might have been. The remark about his neck the previous morning hadn't pissed him off that much, had it?

He did not understand. But Butch had endured a hell of a time within the past two weeks. Much of his past had been revealed, mostly against his own will. Perhaps next time they reunited Burke could find out even more, but for now, Butch had received more than his fair share of wretchedness.

"Alright," Burke finally said softly. "It's fine."

He drifted a finger up and down Cavendish's arm, a hopeful attempt to provide some comfort, even draw the faintest of amused reactions out of Butch, but the older outlaw moved away. He seemed to prefer practically teetering on the edge of the mattress than come into contact with his companion. Something had frightened him out of the trust between them.

Less than a minute later, Butch arose from the bed and got dressed. Burke watched him with sadness and confusion before grabbing his own clothes and doing the same. How ironic that much of their time together had involved him naked and yet for half of it sex had been the last thing on either of their minds.

*

"What's that smell?"

Burke glanced up questioningly at Skinny, who was presently leaning towards him and taking a whiff as they exited the hotel. He nearly said he had no idea when he realized the younger man was also beginning to sniff towards Butch.

"It's soap, ya great idiot," he finally answered. "Perhaps we shoulda taken some with us so the rest of ye can get acquainted."

As the Cavendish gang filed out onto the main road, they all noticed the deathly silence which still hung in the air ever since their arrival. Very few signs of life had made themselves known in the town throughout the gang's stay, apart from the bartender, but as they mounted their horses and packed, every now and then they would catch the parting of a curtain in their peripheral vision.

"Maybe we'll still have a chance to shoot down some heroes yet," Jésus remarked with a smirk. As they departed, some looked back in case of followers and spied a small crowd forming in the main road.

"Butch," Alvirez alerted their boss. Turning in his saddle, Butch saw that several in the group were holding gardening tools and rifles. He scoffed.

"Pretty brave now that we're a hund'erd feet away from'em," he muttered. He might have been more amused by their cowardice if he had not been in such a god-awful mood from the unpleasant morning. With the furthest behind of his gang keeping their revolvers at the ready in case of anything untoward from the locals, he and his men moved on, heading East the moment they were able.

When the gang had overcome the worst of the rough terrain, Burke knew his remaining time was short. Neither he or Butch had spoken for the length of the ride, a little over a half hour. He would have loved to have stayed longer with Butch, but he also knew arguing or defiance would ruin what few minutes they had left between them, and he did not want to part from him with either man in a sour mood.

As the snowy landscape opened up to clearer ground, Butch slowed his horse, and Burke, taking the hint, followed his example. Soon they were far behind the other men. He rode ever closer to his friend's side until he could easily touch him, and thus did so, interlocking his fingers with those of Cavendish. Butch did not look at him, but he also did not react negatively, allowing the holding of his hand.

"Hopefully this time we won't take ages to return to each other," Burke offered. "I'll miss ye."

For a full minute Butch remained silent. Burke felt discouraged until his partner finally muttered out a response.

"I guess I'll be glad to see yer scribbled ass again. One day."

The vague assurance made Burke smile, and he let go of the other's hand as they continued to ride.

An hour later the gang arrived at a long patch of snow-covered ground which was likely a road, based on the absence of vegetation. Burke glanced at Butch before dismounting.

"Well, lads," he announced, "I've enjoyed yer hospitality long enough. Anyone who wants to give goodbye kisses better speak up now."

"Aww," Frank whined. "Ya gotta go already?"

"Fraid so, pet," Burke replied with an amused grin.

Though some of the gang were hardly bothered by their sometime teammate's leaving, others were not so unmoved, clapping Burke on the shoulder and teasingly shoving him as they said their farewells. Jésus told Burke to stay gone this time, though his smile seemed to communicate otherwise. Barret personally thanked him for looking after their leader during his illness. Frank made a point of wishing him luck on his journey, looking a little crushed to see him leave the group.

"You boys g'wan ahead," Butch ordered, waving in the direction beyond his gang. "I'll see this sonuvabitch off."

Burke watched the gang ride off, noting that they came to a stop at a desiccated pine tree about a hundred feet away. Butch, who remained on his horse, removed the coin from his pocket.

"Here," he said, flipping it towards Burke, who caught it with ease. He smirked as he looked at it, and was about to make a joke about how both men would miss all of the fucking when his fellow outlaw spoke up again.

"I don't make a habit of thankin' people." Silver blue eyes stared solemnly down at Burke as he spoke. "What you did... both times..."

Burke smiled sincerely, believing the legitimacy of his lover's gratitude. At the last moment, his usual playfulness insinuated itself into his expression. "Don't worry. I won't cheapen the moment."

He turned his head to observe the waiting gang in the distance. Some were watching, including Frank. He considered suggesting that the sandy-haired youth might have been onto them, but before he could speak, Butch bucked his heels and rode off, causing the Irishman to jump back. Mounting his own horse, Burke watched as the man who had become his secret beloved met with his gang.

"If ye look back, it means ye love me," he murmured, watching with barely contained anticipation as though playing out a superstitious ritual. "If ye look back, just once."

Butch's horse slowed to a halt as he reunited with his men, and after what seemed like a hesitation, he turned his head to look at Burke one last time. He could have sworn he saw every damn tooth as he watched the younger man's tattooed face break into a wide grin. Burke then rode off, as did Butch, who shook his head at the silly bastard's behavior.

Reaching a rock formation, Burke spied distant black dots making their way further East over the snow. He sighed, thinking of Butch. As he had expected, he missed him already. This problem, however, was easily fixed. His conclusion was indisputable: this time, their separation would last far shorter, and he would find a way to do so.

Alternately, Butch's thoughts dwelt on Burke as he rode onward. The cold wind stinging his eyes, he meditated on the idea of Burke riding away and resisted the urge to smile in the slightest, reminded of a saying.

_I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave._

Though their parting was a chilly one befitting the weather, Butch could not entirely think back on his and Burke's time with utter malice or regret. Revealing his past had been difficult, but he wondered if never confessing his past after having left such blatant clues in his sickness would have been worse. Perhaps his confession had been somehow therapeutic. Ultimately Burke had helped him, not just in his illness but in the moments of their first night in the suite, where he lay exposed and vulnerable to any breed of treatment, tender or cruel. The Irish outlaw's presence had been good... it felt right. As someone who claimed he trusted no one, he did trust Burke, and though Butch had wanted them to separate, he also wanted to one day reunite with him.

Ruadhri Burke. "Rory" Burke. Much to the confusion of his men, Butch found himself laughing.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank my new readers who have been along for the ride and enjoying the series. It means a lot to me. Stay tuned for part three, which incorporates the supernatural elements of the franchises, ooooooooh.


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